#ossie mejía

[cregan-starks]

Taquito | Beholden

Summary: Magnussen returns to Guadalajara.

Words: 3,395

Pairing: Walt Breslin x OC (not really)

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of drug trafficking, mentions of sexism, mention of communism, mentions of food, smoking, alcohol, cussing. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: As always, apologies for taking so long to update. This chapter’s lighter than the previous ones, but I hope y’all still enjoy it. If you wish to be added to or removed from my taglist, my DMs and ask box are open.

Credits: Huge thank you to my beta @maharani-radha-writes 💛 and to my darlings @cleastrnge​ 💜 and @qoedameron​​ 💓 for the Mexican Spanish translations!  

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MARCH 6, 1986

GUADALAJARA, MEXICO

          Obscure fun fact: sometimes, the DEA experience involved sneaking barefoot out of a parking lot, at 1 a.m. Completely sober, too. Holding her shoes in one hand and her lit cigarette in the other, Magnussen sauntered towards her apartment building, accompanied by the sound of crickets. Against her better judgement, she stopped near a streetlamp to finish her cigarette. Bugs had flown around the top, drawn to its light. The current state of affairs did have a reasonable explanation. Barely two hours into her six-hour drive from Mexico City to Guadalajara, Magnussen’s feet had begun to hurt, so she had taken off her heels. In hindsight, it had been a shitty decision. The temperature had dropped significantly – causing goosebumps to erupt all over her skin – and the rough surface of the sidewalk underneath her feet created a slight discomfort. Magnussen took a drag from her cigarette, relishing in the view. The night sky served as a canvas for the shy, gleaming stars. A couple of blocks away, a dog barked as a car quietly drove by.

          Magnussen remembered a similar evening, sitting on the fence of the Consulate with Kiki and smoking, after he and his team had failed to lure Gallardo across the border into the U.S. and arrest him. Kiki had been so adamant about Gallardo knowing his name. He had felt exhausted, demoralized, defeated. That operation had been the closest they had ever gotten to capturing the Godfather, and he had slipped through their fingers… again. Kiki had longed to go home. It had seemed like he had finally been willing to abandon the hunt… and he should have. Back then, Gallardo had been wanted for being a notorious narco-trafficker. Now, he was also wanted for Kiki’s torture and murder. A sour reminder that a flame can transform into a wildfire.

          Worse, the men tasked with bringing Gallardo to justice didn’t even give a shit about Camarena. Magnussen gritted her teeth in frustration. She had taken Leyenda’s pulse, and she had been left rather disappointed. How was she supposed to work with them? Petski was auditioning to be a mime, Mejía was an arrogant toe, Méndez and Álvarez were yes-minions, Orozco was Breslin’s mustached parrot, Garza’s favorite hobby was waterboarding – or spitting on puppies – Palacios hadn’t developed a personality yet, and Breslin was a narrow-minded redneck. He probably wouldn’t budge on the Azul situation. Typical Yankee; loved to hear himself speak, rejected anyone else’s input. Whatever. Magnussen was too woman for her opinion to matter. Morales had been the only one whom she had genuinely liked. At least he had had the decency to introduce himself and welcome her to the team… although, as far as Magnussen was concerned, he must have had ulterior motives, too. Severe lack of trust among coworkers. Off to a great start…

          Give it time, she reasoned. Loosen some of that Eastern European pessimism. Magnussen dropped her cigarette on the ground, instinctively moving her foot to put it out before pausing in realization. Dodged a burn. She crouched and used the heel of one of the shoes that she was holding to extinguish the cigarette, mumbling “ridiculous” to herself, then headed into the complex. Magnussen peered to distinguish shapes in the dark in an attempt to not trip and fall flat on her mug as she tiptoed up the oddly dirty and sticky stairs. She cringed internally at the mere idea of navigating her apartment in this condition, already tired. Throw in hunger and an agonizing need to pee, and you could guess Magnussen’s general disposition.

          Maybe contemplating building her own network within the operation would serve as a distraction and cheer her up a bit. She couldn’t depend on her colleagues forever. In fact, she didn’t fancy relying on them at all. Administrator Lawn had gotten one thing right. Magnussen was no team player. She refused to let Calderoni off the hook, too. She demanded answers, and she was certain that the Commander was in possession of one or two of them. Calderoni had potentially upgraded to triple agent, bumping elbows with the Mexican government, the U.S. government, and the Guadalajara cartel. When Magnussen had told Breslin that Leyenda required somebody on the inside, she had meant it. Commander Calderoni was the perfect candidate for the job. Her plans didn’t end there, either. She also wanted to set up surveillance on Tómas Morlet – a DFS agent who had actually been placed at the scene of Camarena’s abduction and the man responsible for Kiki’s neighbor’s execution – and the low-ranking assholes who just so happened to be on Leyenda’s hit list. Happy coincidence.

          Magnussen curled her fingers around the handrail, for support, the sound of her rings clinking against the metal echoing. Apologies, neighbors. Unfortunately, they will have to adapt. You never knew what you were going to get, with Magnussen. Judging by the crusty sensation in the corners of her eyes, her makeup had betrayed her as well, becoming smudged. Magnussen was eager to eat, sleep… definitely drink… and wash her feet. She made it past the second floor. Almost there. So close, yet so far away. Magnussen even entertained the idea of crawling on all fours to avoid smearing the floor and carpets in her apartment. Who was she kidding? She would undoubtedly pass out immediately. Anything else belonged to the realm of speculation.

          Fuck.

          Magnussen froze in her spot, startled by a door swinging open, nearly clutching her shoes to her chest.

          ‘¡Oh, mierda!’, exclaimed the intruder, equally stunned, ‘Me espantaste.’ (Oh, shit! You scared me.)

          You and me both, honey. The apartment’s light flooded the hallway, further confusing Magnussen’s fragile state of mind.

          ‘Pérdon,’ she mumbled, discreetly studying the woman in front of her. (Sorry.)

          Big, dark eyes stared at Magnussen with concern. Her turquoise nails contrasted her smooth, brown skin, and her thick eyebrows were darker than her lengthy curls. She wore a beige cardigan over a white undershirt, her voluptuous chest distracting Magnussen only a little… as did her plump lips and curvy hips.

          ‘¿Estás bien?’, inquired the woman, visibly worried. (Are you okay?)

          Poor soul. Magnussen couldn’t blame her. She was roaming the hallway, barefoot, at one in the morning. Don’t sweat it, she could’ve seen worse.

          ‘Totalmente,’ assured Magnussen, calmly, ‘Solo tratando de llegar a mi departamento.’ (Totally. Just trying to get to my apartment.)

          ‘¿Vives aquí?’, asked the woman, surprised, perking up, ‘No te he visto antes.’ (You live here? I haven’t seen you before.)

          You shouldn’t exactly be seeing me now, either. That’s a story for… never. If you’re fortunate, you won’t run into me in the future.

          ‘Me mudé ayer,’ clarified Magnussen, hesitantly, regarding the current time, ‘O hace dos días. ¿Porqué estás sacando la basura a esta hora?’, she interrogated, referring to the trash bag that the woman was holding. (I moved in yesterday… or two days ago. Why are you taking out the trash at this hour?)

          Forget about my suspicious behavior. What about yours? The woman’s demeanor did not suggest that she was deceiving Magnussen. Alas, her investigative skills after midnight should be deemed dubious, at best.

          ‘Estaba afuera con unos amigos,’ explained the neighbor, the memory fond, ‘Ah, tú eres la que pone Judas Priest a todo volúmen.’ (I was out with some friends. Ah, you’re the one who plays Judas Priest loudly.)

          ‘Sí,’ confirmed Magnussen, unsure how to feel about the label, ‘Esa soy yo.’ (Yeah. That’s me.)

          Spotted on day one, and already effortlessly built a reputation for herself. How long would laying low have lasted, anyway? She couldn’t not talk with sentient beings.

          ‘Soy Guadalupe,’ introduced the woman, friendly, extending her free hand, ‘Llámame Lupita.’ (I’m Guadalupe. Call me Lupita.)

          ‘Bonito nombre,’ complimented Magnussen, shaking her hand, mindful of her shoulder holster peeking out from her jacket, ‘Santo. Soy Antonia. Llámame Toni.’ (Beautiful name. Holy. I’m Antonia. Call me Toni.)

          Another lie that she would have to maintain. I gotta put them on paper, eventually.

          ‘Gusto en conocerte,’ commented Lupita, offering a small smile, ‘¿De dónde eres?’ (Nice to meet you. Where are you from?)

          Shit.

          ‘Es un poco complicado,’ excused Magnussen, awkwardly, grimacing, ‘Vivo en Nueva Zelanda... pero nací en Rumanía.’ (That’s a bit complicated. I live in New Zealand… but I was born in Romania.)

          ‘No sé mucho de Rumanía,’ admitted Guadalupe, sounding disheartened, ‘Nunca he estado ahí.’ (I don’t know much about Romania. Never been.)

          ‘No te preocupes,’ enunciated Magnussen, waving dismissively, ‘No te pierdes mucho.’ (Don’t worry. You didn’t miss out on much.)

          Unless you count communist repression, minimum respect for human rights, secrecy, propaganda, occasionally hideous infrastructure.

          ‘¿Cómo es que estás en Guadalajara?’, questioned Lupita, politely curious. (How come you’re all the way in Guadalajara?)

          Attempting to bring justice to my deceased friend, who was tortured and murdered by a drug cartel, in collaboration with the Mexican government – allegedly. So, the usual.

          ‘Yo, uh, tengo un internado,’ disclosed Magnussen, mentally congratulating herself for her duplicitous reflexes, ‘En el consulado de Estados Unidos.’ (I, uh, have an internship… at the U.S. Consulate.)

          It’s a classified internship. Please, don’t press the issue. It’s a difficult period for me.

          ‘Que elegante,’ noted Guadalupe, half impressed, tugging her sweater over her chest, to keep warm, ‘Yo estoy intentando tener un título de Artes. Trabajo en un salón de uñas.’ (Fancy. I’m trying to get an Arts degree. I work at a nail salon.)

          Glancing down at her feet, Magnussen curled her toes, to prevent them from falling victim to frostbite. “Fancy” is not a word I would use to describe my “internship.” Arts are always approved of. Artists are the soul of society.

          ‘Buena suerte,’ she replied, unable to omit the most precious fact, ‘¿Salón de uñas, huh? Que suerte la mía.’ (Good luck. Nail salon, huh? Lucky me.)

          ‘Eres bienvenida cuando quieras,’ asserted Lupita, leaning against the doorframe, ‘¿Estás libre este fin de semana? Deberíamos salir.’ (You are welcome anytime. Are you free this weekend? We should hang out.)

          Despite her initial cynicism, Magnussen gradually realized that she would need to interact with people outside of her Leyenda circle, otherwise she would lose it and commit atrocities.

          ‘Aún no lo sé,’ began Magnussen before interrupting herself to address the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel that emerged from Guadalupe’s apartment, ‘Oh, hola.’ (I don’t know yet – Oh, hello.)

          Lupita quickly moved her foot to block the dog’s path. Its round, black eyes watched Magnussen with a sweet, gentle expression, and its lengthy, fluffy ears framed its face. The dog sported a silky, classical Blenheim coat – rich chestnut markings on a clear, pearly white ground.

          ‘Esta es Taquito,’ revealed Guadalupe, evidently not having anticipated the dog’s presence, ‘Debería estar dormida.’ (This is Taquito. She should be asleep.)

          Taquito – excellent name, by the way – can do whatever she wants.

          ‘Es un amor,’ countered Magnussen, affectionately, crouching to scratch the dog behind its ears, ‘Tráela contigo cuando salgamos.’ (She’s a darling. Bring her with you when we go out.)

          ‘Los perros no están permitidos en bares, Toni,’ reminded Lupita, playfully. (Dogs aren’t allowed in bars, Toni.)

          ‘Que se jodan,’ declared Magnussen, adamantly, petting Taquito’s head, ‘Iremos a un parque.’ (Fuck them. We’ll go to a park.)

          Taquito showed her endorsement by wagging her tail, excitedly.

          ‘Le encantará eso,’ chuckled Guadalupe, weakly pushing the dog back into her apartment, ‘Di buenas noches, Taquito.’ (She’ll love that. Say good night, Taquito.)

          ‘Buenas noches,’ said Magnussen, standing up and waving to Taquito. (Good night.)

          ‘Realmente tengo que tirar la basura,’ recalled Guadalupe, cautiously shutting the door once the dog was inside, ‘Nos vemos luego.’ (I really have to throw away the trash. See you around.)

          ‘Cuídate,’ quipped Magnussen, amused, observing her depart down the stairs. (Take care.)

          Alright. Scram, Scout. Forth, on to your lair.

          Magnussen kicked off her slippers and leaned back against the couch – mindful of her filled wine glass – stretching her legs before resting her feet on the edge of the coffee table. Fleetwood Mac’s Spare Me a Little of Your Love started to play quietly on the stereo. She sipped her beverage, the spice inundating her taste buds, urging her nerves and muscles to finally relax, since the immediate burdens had been lifted off her chest; she had relieved her bladder, washed her feet, removed her makeup, changed into her pyjamas, and eaten… dinner? What meal do people have at two a.m.?

          Her eyes lingered on the telephone laying on the table, conflicted. She should have dealt with this yesterday… or two days ago. She itched for another cigarette, but that would require getting up, walking into the bedroom, retrieving the pack, and cracking a window to get rid of the smell and smoke. Open windows at night were a no-go. Magnussen was on her own. She downed her wine – setting the glass aside – and grabbed the telephone. Magnussen checked her wrist watch as she dialed the number, estimating that it must have been eight in the morning in New Zealand. Here we go.

          A few seconds passed, and the prolonged dial tone seemed to be in sync with her heartbeat. Magnussen absentmindedly pulled on the loose thread of one of her fuzzy socks, hoping that the noise would cease – though she was unsure about her preferred outcome. One where I don’t get shamed for suffering from chronic hesitancy.

          When the dial tone abruptly stopped, the words died on her tongue, her throat dry. A funny feeling settled in her stomach. Anxiety butterflies.

          ‘Hello?’, answered Maia’s robotic voice, casually.

          Any trace of thoughts vacated Magnussen’s mind. She glanced around the living room, fixating on nothing in particular.

          ‘Uh, hey,’ she greeted, stiffly, scratching the nape of her neck, ‘It’s me.’

          ‘Well, well, well,’ articulated Maia, and Magnussen braced herself for the upcoming snark, ‘La Llorona didn’t find you yet. I hear you’re serenading me.’

          Magnussen involuntarily looked at the stereo. The song neared its end.

          Spare me a little,

          Spare me a little,

          Spare me a little of your love.

          ‘Compensating for my silence,’ she huffed, the corners of her mouth tilting upwards, ‘Sorry about that, by the way. What’re you up to?’

          ‘In the kitchen,’ informed a grumpy Maia, ‘Drinking coffee before work.’

          ‘First cup?’, inquired Magnussen, smugly proving that she knew Maia’s morning routine.

          ‘Second,’ corrected Maia, apparently fumbling with cutlery in the background.

          ‘Oh, so, I caught you at a good time,’ joked Magnussen, leaning over the couch arm to turn off the stereo.

          ‘That depends,’ teased Maia, flirtatiously, ‘What’ve you got for me?’

          ‘I just got back to Guadalajara,’ droned Magnussen, the reminder causing her to feel tired again.

          ‘Isn’t it late there?’, checked Maia, confused, the frown in her tone palpable.

          ‘Early, according to some,’ countered Magnussen, humorously, producing a small piece of paper from the pocket of her pyjama pants, ‘I had a meeting with the team.’

          Morales’ note. She scanned the neatly written names and numbers, barely paying attention.

          ‘And how was it?’, interrogated Maia, evidently curious.

          ‘I’m not,’ began Magnussen, carefully, searching for the appropriate term, ‘Too impressed. They seem like a bunch of yes-men. In it for a medal and a few bucks. Only Morales talked to me afterwards. Genuine or not…’

          ‘There’s that pessimism, alive and well,’ observed Maia, fondly.

          ‘It’s not that,’ grumbled Magnussen, shoving the note in her pocket, ‘Breslin’s already stepping on my tail.’

          Romanian saying. Maia would get it. She always does.

          ‘Who could’ve anticipated that?’, falsely lamented an amused Maia.

          ‘He has ego cramps because of the airport thing,’ dismissed Magnussen, sinking into the couch.

          ‘Do tell,’ encouraged Maia, interested.

          An opportunity to complain? She would be a fool not to seize it. Maia proceeded to sip her coffee, loudly, forcing Magnussen to briefly remove the telephone from her ear, annoyed by the noise. Maia was doing it on purpose.

          ‘I randomly saw him struggling to light his cigarette,’ explained Magnussen, feigning innocence, ‘So, I offered him my lighter. Made small talk.’

          ‘You didn’t tell him who you were,’ concluded Maia, incredulously.

          ‘Of course, I didn’t,’ scoffed Magnussen, offended by the implication, ‘Said my name’s Sofia, faked an accent. He was probably suspicious, but I doubt he figured out what was really wrong. We met a second time in Heath’s office.’

          ‘Gross,’ deadpanned Maia.

          Magnussen wholeheartedly agreed.

          ‘I didn’t know Breslin was gonna show,’ she clarified, placing the telephone between her ear and shoulder to reach for the DEA badge on the coffee table, ‘He didn’t know I was gonna show. It was funny. He was so pissed.’

          ‘Barbie’s boyfriend must have been confused as hell,’ posited Maia, chuckling, ‘What did he do?’

          ‘Nothing,’ shrugged Magnussen, bitterly, ‘It’s not in his job description. He still pretends to have a spine. He didn’t stay long. I can’t tell if he feels any guilt over what happened.’

          She studied the pretentious-looking object, attentively, her nail lightly digging into the eagle – the U.S. – proudly sitting atop the badge’s sunburst-shaped body, grasping an olive branch and arrows – the federal government’s authority over peace and war. Atrocious.

          ‘It’s not in the job description,’ echoed Maia, somber, ‘He doesn’t have to.’

          ‘Hopefully, D.C. will be merciful, and I won’t have to deal with Bureaucrat Ken’s existence moving forward,’ claimed Magnussen, gloomy, tossing her badge on the table, ‘Anyway, I bumped into one of my neighbors. Lupita. She has a dog named Taquito.’

          ‘Congratulations on socializing,’ jested Maia, condescendingly, ‘A reason for you to go out more. Don’t forget to smuggle Taquito into New Zealand when you come back.’

          ‘If I come back,’ corrected Magnussen, reflexively, then subtly attempted to change the subject, ‘I thought we were getting a cat.’

          ‘Hey, don’t talk like that,’ scolded Maia, refusing to take the feline bait.

          Magnussen provided no response, instead shifting into a more comfortable, apathy-compatible position, lying down on her side, balancing the telephone over her left ear.

          ‘How’re you holding up, so far?’, murmured Maia, concerned, as if she were reaching out to tenderly squeeze Magnussen’s shoulder.

          A lump formed in her throat, preventing the truth from bursting past the surface. I wish things hadn’t been like this. I wish Kiki would still be alive. I wish I had been a child for a little longer. Lying to Maia would be pointless. Magnussen swallowed hard and counted the seconds, pondering when would be the right moment to say something. She sniffed, gradually sobering up.

          ‘I don’t know,’ confessed Magnussen, at last, voice wavering, ‘It’s strange, being here, not having him around… The city hasn’t changed much, but everything feels different. I’m starting to understand what Jaime meant.’

          ‘You need time,’ offered Maia, compassionately, ‘Going back was never going to be easy. You’re probably not going to like this, but I think you’re doing this for yourself as much as you’re doing it for Kiki… Take it easy.’

          Historically unsustainable for me.

          ‘You might be creating problems where there aren’t any,’ continued Maia, surprisingly civil, ‘Heath, Breslin, Morales, whoever the fuck. You’ll be fine. You can handle them. They have no idea what’s coming.’

          ‘The cartel or the DEA?’, quipped Magnussen, managing a smile.

          ‘Both,’ replied Maia, decisively.

          ‘Okay, enough about my bullshit,’ interjected Magnussen, her allergy to compliments manifesting, ‘How’s everything on your side of the world?’

          ‘Long version?’, recited Maia, aggressively setting her mug in the sink, ‘Up to my neck in work. O’Connor is driving me up a fucking wall. I don’t know who hired him, and I don’t know why they won’t fire him… Short version? I can’t wait for the weekend.’

          ‘Amen, sister,’ yawned Magnussen, stretching her legs that didn’t remotely touch the opposing arm of the couch.

          ‘Alright, I have to go to work,’ announced Maia, adopting her Mom Tone, ‘And you need to sleep.’

          ‘Mmmyeah,’ mumbled Magnussen, drowsily, rubbing her eye, ‘I miss you.’

          ‘I bet you do,’ sassed Maia, readily.

          ‘Mahuika,’ warned Magnussen, vaguely threatening.

          ‘I miss you, too,’ reassured a sly Maia, ‘Call me at more decent hours.’

          ‘Attempts will be made,’ bargained Magnussen, doubtful, ‘Good… morning.’

          ‘Good night, honey,’ chirped Maia.

          Magnussen lazily shifted on her back, allowing the telephone to fall next to her, on the couch cushion. She stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, contemplative, before she realized that the unwashed dishes awaited her, in the kitchen. From the bottom of her being, Magnussen released a deep, heavy sigh.

          Fuck.

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic​ @amidalaraan​ @artthurshelby​ @buttercup--bee​ @cleastrnge​ @dameronology​ @frodo-sam​ @itssmashedavo​ @kalondarling​ @ladygangsters​ @maevesdarling​ @maevemills​ @maharani-radha​ @mitchi-c��� @moonlight-prose​ @nicolettegreen​ @pascalisthepunkest​ @queenofthefaceless​ @revolution-starter​ @sullho​ @themangolorian​ @tisbeautifulfreedom​ @qoedameron​

END THE WAR ON DRUGS: Equity Organization & Drug Policy Alliance

READ MORE: Mahuika, DEA badge, to step on someone’s tail = to annoy/upset them

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

I’m sooooo excited! Could I please request Ossie with either Halloween or Nightmare on Elm street 🎃

Dream A Little Dream of Me

Pairing: Ossie Mejía x Reader

Warnings/notes: a little slutty; language; violence; blood; I tried something and I hope it works. It was fun for me, anyway; beautiful Ossie gif by @cregan-starks

Rating: R

Word count: 1336

"You okay?" Ossie asks. You hadn't even heard him come in the room. You're perched awkwardly on the edge of a bed that isn't yours, made up with sheets and pillows and blankets that aren't yours, your head plopped in your hands.

Ossie crouches down in front of you, taking your hands away from your face and holding them in his. His thumb passes over the back of your hand in an absent-minded, calming gesture and you're suddenly overwhelmed by the simple tenderness of it. Your lips scrunch up tight and you look away--an even bigger mistake--your eyes finding the computers and heart monitor and wires and tubes.

"How did it get this far?" you ask. "They're just nightmares. I feel like a lab rat."

"Just think of it like a night in a hotel," Ossie offers and you give him a look that makes him shrug sheepishly.

"With sensors and wires and patches and a stranger watching me–"

"You know why you have to do this, why you have to be here," Ossie interrupts. There's a slight edge to his voice and you remember the night that led to all this--remember waking up and finding yourself holding a kitchen knife to his throat. Ossie's been a lot kinder to you than you deserve, offering you a place to stay, offering to find you help. He should have turned you away the moment you walked back into his life.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, casting your eyes down to where your hands are folded in his.

"You're lucky we're doing this and not just locking you away. You should be grateful that I didn't turn that knife on you instead." Ossie's words make your blood run cold and your heart sits in your throat like a stone.

"You don't mean that," you croak, closing your eyes to keep your tears back.

"Don't I?"

You stop breathing. That's not Ossie. What had been a gentle hold on your hands is now a bone-crushing death grip. Instead of the gentle brush of a thumb, you feel the slice of a knife. You pull your hands away and cover your face with them, knowing what you'll see if you open them.

"Open your eyes bitch!" The man rips your hands away from your face and you open your eyes to find yourself staring up at the ceiling. Your skin is slick with sweat and you can't get a handle on your breathing. You don't immediately recognize the room and that adds to your panic. Monitors give off a dull glow that allows you to make out the bed, the crisp, rough sheets, the call button resting next to you. You reach for it with two hands, gripping it tight, wanting more than anything to get up and turn the lights on. You have so many sensors and patches attached to you, making you feel like some fucked-up puppet. You could remove them but you promised to see this through--and that means not fucking any of it up. But now that fucker was wearing Ossie's face. You never should've gone to him, never should've dragged him back into your fucked-up world.

You're slamming the call button, but the room stays dark, the door stays shut.

"Hello?" you call, your voice startling in the silence. It feels so thick and you start to wonder if you're truly alone. "Please, I need to get out of this room!" You can't help the nausea piling in your stomach, the fear clutching your throat. You abandon the call button and rip off the sensors with clumsy hands, kicking out from beneath the sheets. You run for the door and hit your closed fist hard against it three times.

"Let me out!" you shout. As if someone's listening, the door swings open with a groan onto an empty, dark hallway.

Ossie stirs in his sleep. His head is flopped back over the uncomfortable waiting room chair, legs stretched out in front of him--it had taken him a while to fall asleep but it hadn't been impossible--he'd always been able to sleep anywhere. Anyway, he has a promise to keep.

There's a shout--loud enough that it snaps Ossie awake. He massages the crick out of his neck, taking stock of the space around him. It's dark except for the emergency lights and the eerie red wash of the exit signs. Ossie is alone and he knows that isn't right, but isn't quite sure why; can't seem to remember what he was doing before he went to sleep or why he's even here. It was all so clear a moment ago, wasn't it?

Someone's at the edge of his vision, standing by a set of doors that lead somewhere he knows he's not allowed to go.

"Ossie?" you say, sounding almost hopeful. He looks up to see you walking toward him. You're in the pajamas they let you bring from home, arms crossed protectively over your chest, and he remembers why he's here.

"You're not supposed to be out here, what are you doing?" he asks, quickly getting to his feet and meeting you halfway. He silently curses himself for admonishing you. "I'm sorry, I'm just concerned is all. Are you okay?" You shake your head and he notices your tears in the limited light.

"No," you say, burying your face against his chest. "I had a terrible nightmare and there was no one there, no one answered me! I shouldn't have come to you, I shouldn't have brought you into this. I'm sorry! You're not safe, no one's safe, I'm sorry!" Ossie grips your shoulders and gently pushes you back to see your face.

"It'll be okay," he says, though he has no idea how. "Let's get you back to the room and have you lie down. I'll find somebody." Panic immediately colors your face and your hands clench around the fabric of his shirt.

"No!" you say, your tone leaving no room for discussion. A deep, uneven breath passes through you and you repeat the word in a calmer voice.

Ossie sighs, looking around the room as though it might give him an answer. He's caught off-guard when he feels your body close to his once more, your hand tracing up the back of his neck. He thought you'd never touch him that way again. As fucked-up as the situation is, at least it's brought him back to you.

His head dips down toward you, wanting to feel your lips on his.

"Take me home, Ossie," you whisper. "I can't be here anymore, please just take me home."

He hesitates--he shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't. Your fingers weave into his hair and Ossie kisses you before another thought can pass through his mind. The back of his legs bump into a chair and he sits down heavily in it, bringing you into his lap. Ossie's heart is pounding, shivers rocking through his body at every touch. The two of you shouldn't be doing this here, now, like this, but he's missed you. He's wanted you from the moment you showed back up at his door. Hell, he never stopped wanting you.

Ossie's whole body seems to reach for you as your hands slip under his shirt. He lets his head fall back as you bite and kiss at his neck. He groans as your nails rake over his chest.

The groan turns into a sharp cry of pain. You're knocked back as Ossie lurches up from the chair, his breathing rapid as he examines the four cruel cuts running in a jagged line down his torso.

"What the fuck?" he gasps.

"Oh I'm sorry Ossie, I forgot you're not a fan of knife play." You're talking to him from a crouched position on the floor, but it's not you. It's not even your voice towards the end. On your right hand is a glove with ugly knives for fingers. They're covered in his blood, and Ossie watches as you tap them lightly against your smiling lips.

[arte-is-now-reading]

Welcome to Arte’s Reading list

A special reading list for the #stardust reblog challenge by @natrace

Ways to follow this fics

Save this list, or follow the tag: #artereadsstars and the above one

Reminder (house keeping rules)

This is multi fandom and I have lots of interest. So list will reflect that. Some stuff will be fluffy, some mature content, some angsty, and some nsfw. You control your content consumption, so don’t read what you don’t like, don’t be mean to creators if you don’t like something, and use filtering if you want to avoid certain things, including triggers. Overall my blogs are 18+, so no minors please.

The fics

*Please see the fics themselves for detailed warnings, detailed tags, and descriptions. I’ll summarize fics by fandom, you have to click the fic to see more info. Every time I reblog, I will add the character to the tags. Reblogs will be to this page.

🎃 = soooky szn stuff

SEPTEMBER + OCTOBER

Kingsman Golden circle

More than a moment - @clydesducktape 🦄

Ezra (Prospect 2018)

Stuck - @insomniamamma 🦄

Blue sunshine - @keeper0fthestars 🥵

Point of no return - @the-blind-assassin-12

The Mandalorian

Fennec - Just let me take care of you @oonajaeadira 🦄

Assorted Pedro Pascal characters

Dave York - Gimmie Shelter by @writeforfandoms 🧸

Frankie Morales - The Incident by @jaa1682-27 🥺🦄

Mayans MC

Angel Reyes- There’s no way he has a license by @ nocturnal-milk-dud 🎃

Bishop Losa - Someone could lose a heart tonight @ nocturnal-milk-dud 🎃

Narcos (both)

Horacio Carrillo - what’s the bad news @ nocturnal-milk-dud 🎃

Ossie Mejía - where did my lover go @ nocturnal-milk-dud 🎃

Ossie Mejia - hidden in his red coat is a red right hand

Walt Breslin - A good time @ /Drabbles Mc

Triple frontier

Jurassic frontier

Etc /assorted

Ray Merriweather - It’s lovely down in the woods, but safer to stay home by @ nocturnal-milk-dud 🎃

NOVEMBER

DECEMBER

About the challenge 😁

[maevesdarling]

Walt and his team entering the airfield in Juarez

Walt and his team leaving the airfield in Juarez

[el-cheung]

Stay alert, stay alive.

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

So I have no freaking idea how I did it or why y'all are here but I hit 300 followers (and on my birthday?! Wtf is happening?!)! So here is a smooch for every single one of you because you're all amazing and I am incredibly lucky to share internet space with you 🖤

To celebrate here is a list of the fics I've found that just absolutely wrecked me and healed me and made me feel all of the things:

Be Prepared to Bleed by @nocturnal-milk-dud the way Emily writes Ossie so tender and earnest feels incredibly true to his character. And her reader is badass and flawed and very human. I am hopelessly invested in this story.

It's Been You (1 & 2) by @mesmorales the way Mary wrote her Whiskey shook me up. He's caring and wounded and loquacious and so full of love that it makes my heart ache. I have never read a Whiskey fic that actually made me yearn for Jack until I read this. He's so well rounded and an actual character as opposed to a caraciture. I did not expect to love him like this and yet here I am, desperate for part 3.

No More Than a Name for Yearning by @velvetmel0n this fic made me weak. Like fucked up for an entire day, sitting there thinking about my choices kind of weak. The longing, the yearning, the absolutely devastating smut, and then to end it all on those feelings?! Ty has given us A Gift™️

Quivering Flames by @paper-cloud The amount of notes this fic has is criminal. I am legitimately shocked it's not the damn Mando fic bible. The way Matilde uses her words leaves me speechless every time I re-read. There's something so delicate and lovely about this retelling of Eros and Psyche. Her phrasing and the vivid way she weaves it all together is incredible. When I grow up I want to be as talented as she is.

Helter Skelter by @mothandpidgeon when I tell you that I would risk it all for this Ezra I fucking mean it. Yes, he's a cult leader. Yes, he's batshit fucking insane. BUT I LOVE HIM, YOUR HONOR. The nuance in his character is something I think authors rarely achieve and she absolutely nailed it. Cee's characterization is so melancholy and beautiful and I think there's something of her in most young woman. This fic is an all around wild fucking ride.

Bloom by @charnelhouse I had to take several fucking seats after I finished this bad boy. I had to drink an entire gallon of water, touch some grass and just lay tf down and recover. Just...go read it. And take a shower after.

Wednesday by @asta-lily look, I am not feral for Pedro the way most of my friends are. But Frankie? This Frankie? I love him and he is my husband now. Rarely do I read and enjoy fluff but there's just something so pure and comforting about this fic.

So to really mark this whole occasion I've opened up my requests for the first time! I'll write a fluff/smut/angst drabble for any character on my masterlist + Poe, Josiah (In the Dark), Oberyn, Kevin Jimenez, Frank Castle, and Din.

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Emily! I am so glad that you're bringing back Spooky requests 😩

Can I pls request baby boy Ossie and Scream?

I feel the need to apologize in advance. I am (quite) rusty. I also love love love that you're so excited for this, it made me even more excited for this! I'm also full on ready to pick a fight with tumblr because I made a bunch of edits and it didn't save any of them. P.S. if you notice any mistakes no you didn't.

Hidden In His Coat Is a Red Right Hand

Pairing: Ossie Mejía x Reader

Warnings/notes: blood; alcohol mention; death; a little gore; vomit (sorry); hanging (sort of); violence in general; there's a Stranger Things reference just for you Alex, even though I don't watch the show

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 2077

The music is too loud, the whole room vibrating with it, and the party lights swirling on the floor and across peoples’ faces is starting to make you feel nauseous. The partygoers are getting on the wrong side of drunk, men putting hands where they shouldn’t, and women laughing too loud. It’s time to go home, peel yourself out of your costume, and get into bed. You say your goodbyes to your friends, not even sure they heard you. As you’re making your way to the door, bodies beating you back a step or two like heavy waves, a guy dressed like Ghostface bumps into you, his drink spilling all over the front of your costume. You had so nearly made it out. He’s in the middle of apologizing profusely when he really stops to look at you and lifts the mask off his face, leering as he looks you up and down.

“If you want we can go back to my place, throw it in the wash, find a way to pass the time?”

“Thanks but I can do my own laundry,” you say, shoving past him and making a beeline for the door. Pausing in the lobby, you take a moment to really look at yourself. Ghostface had the signature cocktail, something Halloween-themed, with too much sugar, and a candy eyeball floating in the bright red liquid. Bright red liquid that was all over your Hellfire Club shirt. Yeah, okay, you’d kinda phoned it in for Halloween this year, but you didn’t have a lot of time, the invite to the party so last minute. 

The lobby is quiet–the only sound the persistent thump of the music in the other room–and strangely vacant. The coat check girl is gone too.

“Hello?” There’s no answer and you look around helplessly. This night has gone on too long and you’ll be damned if it lasts one more minute. The coat check room is stuffed despite it being only fall, racks standing at head height in the center of the room and brass closet rods sitting higher on either side along the wall, all holding some form of outerwear. This October has been unusually cold, the wind strong and biting through everything. The labels are obvious though and you find your coat quickly. You find something else too. At first you think she’s just standing there, the coat check girl, maybe checking her phone, and you want to be angry at her for not hearing you before. But she didn’t look up when you came in, and she’s not looking up now. Your stomach pinches, your feet going heavy, but you inch toward her. It’s just the alcohol, just the atmosphere making you feel this way. Silly, really. 

“Are you okay?” you ask. As you get closer you realize she’s standing in between the coats hung on one of the closet rods, one of them wrapped around her shoulders. No, she’s not standing. She’s not standing at all. The closet rod is too tall for that. 

The collar of the coat hid it. The coat hid a lot. 

A rope is knotted around her neck, cinched tight to the rod. 

Your first thought is to take the weight off her neck. Maybe this was recent, maybe there’s still time. You rush to her, wrapping your arms around her legs, hoisting her. All easier said than done really, you quickly come to find. None of it matters because the coat opens up, and you see everything else. Everything that was meant to stay inside. The vomit bubbles up into your mouth before you can do anything about it. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck.” You keep repeating the words, hands shaking and covered in blood as you reach for your phone. “911 please 911.” The phone is ringing before you can even dial and the vibration in your hand almost causes you to send it flying across the room. It’s not a number you recognize so you hit decline and try again. The phone is ringing before you can even hit nine.

The process repeats. 

“What?!” you scream the word into the phone before anything else can happen. 

“That’s no way to answer your phone.” The voice is creepy and sinister, far too confident. 

“I have more important things to do than talk to you,” you say.

“How do you know? You don’t even know who I am.”

“I don’t need to know who you are, I need you to shut up and let me make a fucking phone call!” 

“Wait!” You pause, finger over the end call button. You don’t know why but you put the phone back to your ear.

“What?” 

“I hope you weren’t calling the police.” Everything goes cold and you look back at the coat check girl, wondering if she is actually dead, or if some sick prank is going on around you. 

“Why?” you ask.

“Because then I’ll have to gut you, same as her. And hang you with the rest of my decorations.” You hang up the phone, suddenly feeling very alone and turn around, looking out at the lobby. Still very empty, very quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you want to hold your breath and listen as hard as you can. You glance back down at your screen, typing in the numbers uninterrupted this time, heart hammering in your chest as you hesitate over the call button. Maybe it’s just a joke. A fucked-up, twisted idea of a prank. Everybody will be laughing at the end. Yeah. 

Something moves. In the corner of your eye a flash of black. Probably just another partygoer, coming to get their coat from the maybe-not-really-dead coat check girl. She’ll strip herself of the fake intestines and wash off the sticky corn syrup blood. Everyone will laugh. Everyone will go home.

Happy Halloween. 

Something in your brain told you to move, and you have been, eyes glued to the entryway, one foot at a time, further into the room, past the really-truly-dead coat check girl. Your jaw is clenched uncomfortably tight, fingers clamped around your phone, the screen still waiting for you to hit call. 

They lurch out from the left. The two of you have been moving through the room together, both watching different things. They dive at you, something glinting in their right hand and you scream, the sound lost in all the fabric around you and throw yourself forward. 

You sprint toward the lobby, weaving through the coat racks, not looking back, certain they’re right behind you. 

You’re not looking ahead of you either, apparently. Racing toward the exit you crash into a body–living, breathing, real–the two of you landing hard on the floor. 

“Sorry,” you gasp, forgetting for a moment what you were running from. 

“It’s okay, I needed something to wake me up.” The man beneath you isn’t in costume, and thankfully not a Ghostface mask either. He’s wearing a blue jacket with a nametag: Ossie. 

Security. 

You scramble to your feet and try to help him up, all the while trying to explain to him what had just happened, the words tumbling from your mouth in one giant mess. 

“Slow down,” he says, but you’re becoming frustrated and scared all over again.

“No, he killed the coat check girl, I found her body, and he tried to kill me! We need to call the police, we need to get everybody out of here–” 

The party. All of those people, drunk and stupid fish in a barrel. 

On top of that, what was to stop the killer from walking right out with the guests? You had seen several people dressed up as that fucking slasher from the Stab movies. 

Ossie is looking at you skeptically, eyeing the giant red stain that had blossomed over your shirt. You probably smelled like puke too. 

“Listen, this wasn’t me, it was some idiot in there,” you say, gesturing to the closed doors. “I’m not drunk, either, if I was I would probably still be in there. Okay, I know what you’re thinking, it’s Halloween, it’s a party, and I’m fucking with you, but I know what I saw. Please.” 

You watch as he seems to mull it over, his face going through all the motions, eyebrows pinching, lips pursing. 

“Show me what you saw,” he says finally, and your throat constricts at the thought of going back in that room. 

You’re going crazy. You must be going crazy. 

The coat check girl is gone. Her body is gone, anyway. 

“No, no, no no no no, no! She was here, she was right here!” You point at the section of coats, the one she was shrouded in also missing, looking at Ossie like he has to believe you, he has to because it was real, all of it. 

“It’s Halloween, maybe someone was just–”

“Don’t you dare,” you snap, cutting him off before he can say it was a prank. “Besides if it were a joke, where is she? This is the part where people jump out and say ‘gotcha!’ Where’s the fucking ‘gotcha!’?” You’re handling this well. And Ossie is smiling at you softly. Not like you’re an idiot, but, well, something else.

A glass-shattering scream stops everything. A no-joke, scream to end all screams, over the music, over the crowd, out into the lobby. The two of you are running for it, but are met by a tidal wave of costumed partiers running away from it. The music has stopped and the lights are on in the ballroom, illuminating everything. Two people are left in the room: Ghostface, the one who had too much to drink. His mask is up over his head, but he might as well still be wearing it. His mouth is hanging open and his face is white as, well–as the mask. A woman wearing a shirt that says “Final Girl” is lying on the floor in an ever-growing pool of blood. Apparently the killer appreciates irony. 

“Fuck,” Ossie whispers. You don't know how long the two of you stand there, but when Ossie starts to move you go with him, the two of you looking down to see your hand in his. You don't even remember taking it, or had he? Ossie gives you a reassuring smile and lets go. You let him, watching as he guides the man away from the body and out into the lobby, the man mumbling all the way that he didn’t do it. You start to follow when something wet hits your cheek, making you flinch. You wipe at it and your fingers come away dark and red. Up above you is one of the fake corpses, wrapped in black plastic. One of the many Halloween decorations rigged from the ceiling. Another drop lands on your forehead. Hand trembling, you swipe it away, smearing your fingers over your jeans, trying to get rid of it. 

“Hey, c’mon, it’s time to go,” Ossie says, appearing at the door. You nod, but notice a quick shift in his expression. He’s not looking at you anymore. “Behind you!” You turn and the first thing you see is the mask, next is the sharp, shining blade. Ossie grabs you by the arm, hauling you out of the way, putting himself between you and the killer. As they grapple, you run to grab a chair, turning just in time to see the knife sink into Ossie’s stomach. With a rage pure and white hot you crack the chair over the killer’s back and they both go down. It’s a race to see who will make it to their feet first, Ossie’s arm across your shoulders, blood leaking out over his fingers as the two of you try to get him to his feet. The killer is slow, and though you can’t see his face, you know he’s angry. 

“C’mon,” you urge, not taking your eyes off the killer, “c’mon, Ossie, c’mon!” The two of you stumble your way through the doors, slamming them closed behind you. There’s no way for you to lock them so you use your weight until the killer gives up. There’s always another way. 

“The cops are on their way right?” you ask Ossie, and he chuckles, shakes his head. 

“No signal,” he says, and you look at your phone, which you had only used a short while ago. He’s right. Nothing. “Doors are locked too, and I can’t reach any of my guys.” You think of the other corpses hanging in the ballroom. Were they all bodies, or were some still just decorations? Ossie groans, looking down at the stab wound, and a renewed sense of urgency sprouts in your chest. 

“It’ll be okay,” you promise, willing yourself to believe it, as you spring to your feet. The fact remains that you’re trapped, with no help on the way, and a killer determined to pick everyone off, one by one. 

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Ok, you did say we can send more than one. Sooo Ossie + Dusk til Dawn

I know. I’m being greedy. I’m not sorry and thank you for this. I love the way you write Ossie, and imagining him in this scenario feels like a perfect spooky season story.

Thank you for your patience!!! I felt very rusty but I had fun. I hope you have fun too! 💗 (I maybe looked at this one too much and not enough) and I listened to after dark too many times

Knocking On The Devil's Door

Pairing: Ossie Mejía x Reader

Warnings/notes: blood; language; violence; gun violence; claustrophobia; choking/asphyxiation; Ossie gif credit to the lovely @cregan-starks 💓

Rating: R

Word count: 1318

Bad news, that's what this place is. He knew it when he saw it. Somehow this shithole had stood for one hundred years and it would stand for a hundred more. Bad news-that's what he'd told Walt. Lotta good it did him now. 

Ossie stifles a groan and air hisses through his clenched teeth as he peels himself out of his brown jacket, turning his attention to his wounded shoulder. He supposes he should consider himself lucky. When everything went to shit most guys ended up with their throats torn out. All he got was a stray bullet to the shoulder.

And you. 

Ossie is very aware of you watching him as he stanches the bleeding, and he's smart to be. 

You sit across from him in the storage room, listening to the fight raging in the bar. Glass shatters, tables crash under the weight of bodies, bullets fly, and you can smell the blood, as strong out there as it is in the room. 

You're hungry. 

It doesn't matter. You owe him a debt. He may not make it out of here alive but you won't be the reason. He doesn't need to know that, though. Best he thinks you're another survivor, caught up in the same crazy shit as him, or things could turn very ugly in the small room very fast. 

Ossie's struggling with the bandage, and you can feel the need inside you clawing at your throat. You get up-maybe too fast because Ossie stops working to look at you-and cross the room slowly. Your teeth dig into your tongue as you take the bandage from him and work to get it tied. You know you're lingering too long because you can feel him watching you, and blood from your own tongue has gathered in your mouth.

There's a loud thud that startles the two of you. Ossie gets to his feet, and you turn to face the door. Perhaps it was only a body thrown against it, but the silence sits heavy and you can't keep from holding your breath. Your eyes don't leave the door. You startle at the feel of a hand on your wrist. Ossie stands at your side, gun in hand. Lines of blood drip down his arm, one of them sliding over his thumb, and for a moment you've forgotten about the door and everything outside it. All you hear is a strong, even heartbeat.

"I can smell you." The voice comes from the other side of the door and you jump despite its softness. It seeps through the cracks like smoke, smooth and deadly. 

Santanico. 

You shove aside a stack of boxes and wrench open a dust covered trap door. 

"Go!" you hiss. Ossie looks at you in alarm and confusion. The door leads down to a large series of snaking tunnels, and the opening is pitch black. You wave at him to go and hope the desperation in your face is enough for him to trust you. Ossie takes one last glance at the door and decides there's worse things than what's beneath him, and climbs down. There's a crash as the door gives, but you've already hidden the trap door. Santanico steps over what's left of the door, cleaning the dust and debris out of her hair. 

"You're missing the party," she says, her lips shaping up into a deadly smile. She's like a cat eyeing a mouse, and you match her step for step as she slowly moves around the room. As she gets closer to the hidden door, you get closer to the wooden shards. Your eyes never leave her, watching how her neck arches and her fingers dance across her stomach, following the smell of blood that led her there. Santanico finds Ossie's jacket and you bite down on your lip to keep from grimacing. She brings it to her face, finding the dark red spot that had drenched the fabric. You find the piece you want, sharp and sturdy enough to do the trick, but before you can reach for it her eyes are on you. 

"Didn't anyone ever teach you to share?" Santanico demands. She throws aside the boxes, finding the hatch and a dark drop of blood in the dust near it. You grab the makeshift stake and charge at her, but she catches you by the neck without even turning her head. There's nothing but air beneath your feet. 

"Didn't anyone ever teach you to fucken say please?" you choke. 

"No." Santanico launches you like you weigh nothing, sending you sailing through the busted doorway, and crashing into the only table somehow still standing, dust billowing up around you. 

Ossie has no idea where he's going. His lighter offers a meager amount of light, enough to make sure he doesn't run into anything. The tunnels are tight, the walls dripping something dark. He doesn't want to stop but he's afraid if he keeps going the next turn he takes will be the wrong one. 

He shouldn't have jumped into this hellhole to begin with, shouldn't have left you up there alone. But Ossie knows he's the one in danger this time, not you. That you're aware this place exists tells him all he needs to know.  

He swears as he trips over something, landing hard on his chest, the air knocked out of him. Ossie fiddles with the lighter to get his bearing, and finds himself face to face with a human skull. The ground before him is littered with them. His blood goes cold and his heart throbs in his ears, and someone starts screaming.

No, not screaming. Someone's singing. A woman. Her voice bounces off the cool walls, off the skulls, comes from the skulls. It sounds like she's everywhere, like she's inside of him.  

Ossie snuffs the lighter and sits up, hugging the wall, trying to steady his breath.

"There's no way out down here," the woman calls, voice like velvet. "I'm going to find you." He checks his pistol, his fingers sweaty around the grip, and he worries he's starting to lose feeling-the wound maybe worse than he thought. But there's enough ammo to buy him time-he thinks.

Ossie keeps moving, picking his way carefully among the skulls.

It doesn't take you long to find the two of them. Ossie, not knowing where he was headed, had inadvertently taken himself in circles and is now staring down Santanico, gun tight in hand. The two of them stand in a small pool of flickering light. Neither of them see you. 

"And what do you think you're gonna do with that?" Santanico asks. You have to be quick. You know he'll only get one shot in and that it won't do anything but annoy her. The gun fires and you hook an arm around Santanico's neck before she can reach for him, bringing the makeshift stake down into her chest. Santanico howls and her body convulses, bubbles.

"Fucker," she spits, the word muddled and incoherent as she falls apart. You let her drop to the ground, melt into a tarry mess in the dust. 

Ossie hasn't lowered his gun, his eyes on you now. You raise your hands, give him space-not because you're worried about the gun-you're watching the rivulets of blood that are curving their way down his hand.

His face relaxes, his arm drops to rest at his side.

"A rainy night in Guadalajara, three years ago," Ossie says, and you smile ever so slightly, letting your arms fall. He remembers. He remembers you. 

"You saw someone being attacked in an alleyway. You didn't have to help, but you did," you continue for him. "You saved my life. For what it's worth." You give a half-hearted shrug, looking down at the remnants of Santanico. The two of you are quiet, thinking perhaps about that night, and everything that came after, everything that led you here.

"What next?" Ossie finally asks. 

[cregan-starks]

Rookie | Beholden

Summary: Magnussen meets her teammates.

Words: 8,036

Pairing: Walt Breslin x OC (not really)

Warnings: politics, mentions of drugs and drug trafficking, mentions of death, mentions of communism, mentions of alcohol, mention of claustrophobia, mention of food, guns, sexism, Magnussen fights a fly, smoking, cussing. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: Firstly, Happy New Year! May 2022 be easier on all of us! Secondly, I apologize for taking so long with this chapter. Life and writer’s block got in the way. But, as always, thank you for your patience! If you wish to be added to or removed from my taglist, my DMs and ask box are open.

Credits: Huge thank you to my beta @maharani-radha-writes​ 💛 and to my darling @cleastrnge​ (to whom this chapter is dedicated in honor of her birthday)​ for the Mexican Spanish translations 💜

Previous | Ao3 | Masterlist | Next

MARCH 5, 1986

CIUDAD DE MÉXICO, MEXICO

          Edward Heath’s clean-shaven face, ironed grey suit, and impeccable posture made him the embodiment of a true bureaucrat. His large, chimpanzee ears prevented Magnussen from taking him seriously, and his bushy eyebrows resembled those hairy caterpillars that she had seen on TV, in nature documentaries. By comparison, Magnussen looked like a hippie student protesting the Vietnam war, in her T-shirt with a cow wearing sunglasses. Not that she cared about any opinion that Heath might have. Her black leather jacket concealed her arm tattoos, watch, and the shoulder holster that carried her Beretta 92. At least Heath had been productive in that regard, handing her the DEA badge, phone, gun, and car keys, shortly after she had arrived. He had even joked that he would offer her a drink if it weren’t so early.

          ‘That never stopped me,’ Magnussen had commented dryly, no longer interested in the conversation, now that she knew that alcohol wouldn’t be involved.

          But Heath couldn’t just leave things there and spare her of a further tête-à-tête. He started rambling about Leyenda, claiming that she would be an appropriate choice for the team. Fucking hell. Admittedly, Magnussen needed a drink. Although her bed had been more than cozy, it hadn’t felt entirely welcoming, and she hadn’t slept well. New place curse. She had woken up at 8 a.m. to catch her flight to Mexico City, dragged her ass out of bed, eaten in a hurry – unable to savor her breakfast – yawned approximately 20 times on the plane, waited in line at the U.S. embassy – where she hadn’t been allowed to smoke – lied about having to renew her tourist visa, and had been escorted by an employee down a set of stairs to the “passport office” – code for Heath’s lair.

          The half-closed blinds forced her to squint her eyes in order to study her surroundings as she walked into the claustrophobia-inducing room, her heels clicking against the floor. The smell of cologne was intoxicating, much stronger than the one of coffee. Documents, pens, and staplers decorated the desk in the middle, and a couple of chairs rested on either side of it. To her left, a printer and a computer shared an old table that would probably break if somebody deposited a mug on it. When Heath had invited her to take a seat, Magnussen had declined, opting instead to examine some shelves, on the wall. She gently ran her fingertips over the files marked “August 1975”, “September 1975”, “October 1975”, dust collecting on them. Wonder how many war crimes are in here… They wouldn’t fit in this damn building.

          ‘That why you recommended me?’, questioned Magnussen, indifferent, tilting her head to peer at Heath, who was peeking out of the window, seemingly avoiding her glare.

          Sensing another bullshit speech coming her way, Magnussen took precautions and distracted herself with admiring the agent’s features. She despised almost everything about Heath, yet she had to concede that his prominent jaw must have been sculpted by Greek gods. His piercing, icy blue eyes could put Lake Baikal to shame on a bad day. Magnussen was uncertain whether to call those redeeming qualities. This man has none.

          ‘You lived in Mexico for two years,’ reminded the agent, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers, his wedding band glimmering in the light, ‘You know the territory. You worked alongside the team in Guadalajara, so you’re already familiar with the cartel. You’re multilingual.’

          Funny. Three years ago, these were the exact reasons why everybody disregarded whatever she had to say. Americans’ beliefs change like piss in the wind. The U.S. was an exhausting toddler – enjoying its toy one minute and discarding it the next. And if shit doesn’t go the way you want it to, throw a nuclear fit… Literally.

          ‘I also play the piano,’ bragged Magnussen, a hint of irony in her tone, ‘And I’m twenty-four. Old enough to be the granddaughter of most of your agents.’

          She was actually fascinated by Heath’s self-control abilities. No matter the number of times she poked him with a stick, he maintained his composure and did his best to act diplomatic. Magnussen repeatedly dangled the bait in front of him and he refused to engage. Hot.

          ‘We think you could provide a fresh perspective,’ explained Heath, turning to her slightly, shadows dancing across his figure, ‘Modern methods. You received the necessary training–’

          ‘Yeah, yeah,’ interrupted Magnussen, irritated, counting on her fingers while she listed, mockingly, ‘Written assessment, panel interview, drug test, medical exam, physical task assessment, polygraph test, psychological screening, full background check–’

          ‘I’m aware of the DEA’s requirements, Agent Magnussen,’ assured Heath, sounding fatigued, lifting a hand to signal her to stop, ‘I was subjected to them myself. Everything was considered once your candidacy was submitted.’

          ‘And who submitted my candidacy?’, demanded Magnussen, arching a skeptical eyebrow, moving to casually sit down at the desk.

          Sure as hell wasn’t me. Bowen had successfully dodged that question for months, as if her career had depended on it. Maybe it had. Magnussen had a creeping suspicion that it had become classified information. Nevertheless, she had the right to know. Someone had gone through the trouble of bypassing the majority of the DEA’s bureaucratic procedures to get the poor communist girl a job. Heartwarming, if it weren’t so damn frustrating. Magnussen could at least order a bouquet of flowers for the person. She would scribble “(no) thanks” on the note.

          ‘Camarena,’ declared Heath, watching Magnussen’s reaction, attentively.

          Her expression fell, the unexpected answer temporarily disarming her. She averted her gaze, rather ashamed, giving in to the instinctive urge to rub her jacket’s sleeve, inside which the Camarenas’ bracelet safely hid.

          ‘He always spoke highly of you,’ added the agent, approaching Magnussen, hesitantly, ‘Said you were a good kid. Ambitious. Smart. Thought you had a bright future ahead, so he insisted that we had to persuade you to work for the Administration.’ Heath gestured around, rectifying, ‘I doubt this is what he meant… Camarena saw something in you. You’re telling me he was wrong?’

          I wasn’t a good kid. And now, I’m not a good adult. Magnussen’s nails persistently scratched at the table’s edge, unaffected. Wood shreds floated in the air before landing on her thighs. She found the DEA’s sudden interest in hers and Kiki’s relationship disturbing; their bond had never been complicated.

          That night, Magnussen had stayed at the Consulate to finish her research. She had decided to read on the floor, since she had the whole room to herself, her peers having deserted hours ago. The place was unusually quiet, leaving Magnussen to conclude that it was past 6 p.m. Late, according to some.

          ‘You’re still here?’, asked a voice she recognized as Camarena’s.

          ‘Clearly,’ acknowledged Magnussen, slyly, ‘I’d say I’m almost done, but I’d be lying.’

          ‘It’s Friday,’ emphasized the agent, bewildered.

          ‘Exactly,’ she agreed, setting aside a report to look at Camarena, ‘No one to bother me.’

          Camarena was in the doorway, coat on, holding a suitcase; undoubtedly itching to go home. He nodded in understanding, a small smile forming on his face. Magnussen hadn’t seen him smile at all. They had barely interacted, yet he appeared to be the antithesis of Kuykendall.

          ‘Magnussen, no?’, checked the agent, pointing a finger at her, ‘Well, I’m pretty sure your buddies went to the Babel.’

          ‘You’re telling me to fuck off?’, quipped Magnussen, amused, then corrected, ‘They’re not my buddies.’

          ‘You do got a roommate, though, right?’, inquired Camarena, tone implying that a “no” would not be accounted for.

          ‘I guess,’ grumbled Magnussen, beginning to gather her papers.

          The base of her spine complained when she tried to reach for the folder, farther away. Shit. Did I age 50 years? Shockingly, chairs had been invented to serve a virtuous purpose.

          ‘Oh, she’s alive,’ clarified Magnussen, upon noticing Camarena’s perplexity, ‘And probably inebriated.’

          ‘So, you’re on your own tonight?’, speculated the agent, supposedly solving a complex geometry problem in Sumerian.

          ‘I’m on my own most nights,’ stated Magnussen, nonchalant, ‘I don’t mind it.’

          Judging by the prolonged deadly silence that settled while she packed her possessions, Magnussen assumed that Camarena had fucked off. She imagined that the rest of her evening would proceed as it normally did: take the bus, eat supper, shower, call Maia–

          ‘You could come over for dinner,’ blurted Camarena, surprising them with his suggestion, and startling Magnussen.

          ‘You sure?’, she muttered, furrowing her brows, scolding herself for genuinely contemplating his proposal.

          ‘Yeah,’ confirmed the agent, jingling his keys, ‘My wife thinks we don’t socialize enough.’

          ‘Been told the same bullshit,’ confessed Magnussen, annoyed.

          They both chuckled.

          Camarena had nicknamed her “Scrooge”, a feat that seldom failed to stir laughter among his sons – Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Mika would often remark that Kiki and Magnussen were “two grumpy peas in a pod.” Magnussen had spent increasingly more time with the family; she assisted Kiki in the hunt for the Guadalajara cartel and Camarena’s insight proved to be useful for her dissertation.

          Following Kiki’s demise, the DEA – who had loathed their attachment – did a 180° turn and milked their friendship beyond decency. Magnussen wouldn’t be fooled, despite their shallow attempts to rewrite history and convince her that they had always been on her side. She hadn’t forgotten her curriculum vitae, in the words of the great narc-clowns themselves; Ambassador Gavin had labeled her a child, Administrator Lawn had deemed her “hotheaded” and “not a team player,” and Heath had privately referred to her as a “hormonal teenager” to Jaime.

          The busy chatter of people filled the hallway, outside, tearing Magnussen from her spiraling thoughts. Digging up these grudges would achieve nothing. The mission wasn’t about her, nor was it about those who had mistreated her. She had learned long ago to save little hope for herself. Fall in line and you’ll survive.

          Magnussen stood up and patted her striped palazzo pants until they were clean of the timber fragments.

          ‘Why was Kuykendall taken off the case?’, she challenged, masking her festering anger, ‘Seasoned agent. Knew Kiki better than I did.’

          Opposite from her, Heath leaned forward, planting his palms on the desk, as if he were in an intense board meeting. I wonder what new flavors Coca Cola will release.

          ‘Jaime had seen too much and done enough,’ he recited, defensive, out of the blue. He paused and glowered at Magnussen while she propped her ass on the table, her upper body invading his personal space. ‘He was transferred after Camarena was recovered. Mexican authorities launched a homicide investigation. We had no jurisdiction. Our hands were tied… Jaime’s a fine agent and stepping back was what was best for him.’

          Heath retreated, fixing his suit jacket as an excuse. Poor dude’s intimidated. Magnussen made herself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other to keep her balance, and absentmindedly rolled a pencil across the desk’s surface.

          ‘And Calderoni?’, she pressed, twisting the blade deeper into Heath’s exasperation, relishing in pushing his buttons, ‘He was part of the investigation. Did anyone consider contacting the commander who neglected to arrest Félix Gallardo?’

          ‘We believe the cartel got to him,’ disclosed Heath, progressively sour, ‘Approaching him would be dangerous and might compromise our operation… I expected you to understand the gravity and sensitivity of the issue.’

          Bite me, motherfucker. You probably use a different shampoo for your pubic hair.

          ‘Wasn’t that your job?’, retorted Magnussen, defiance etched into her features.

          Heath visibly deflated, letting out a brief sigh, and stroked his forehead. He had been through this before. He was perfectly aware of what she was hinting at; his delayed response to Camarena’s disappearance, which had attracted consequences of its own.

          ‘We made mistakes,’ admitted Heath, almost regretfully, ‘Underestimated the potential repercussions coming from the drug traffickers… But we’re trying to mend some of these wrongs. That’s why Leyenda was created… My brother was killed in 1973, working undercover. I know what it’s like to want justice. To be incapable of getting it. To feel powerless.’

          A couple of knocks on the door halted their discussion, simultaneously causing Magnussen to gladly pull the plug on whatever answer she had devised. In a perverted way, she was relieved. Comforting folks wasn’t her forte. In fact, she sucked at it, and offering consolation was the last thing that she would do to Heath.

          ‘Come in,’ encouraged the agent, amiably, without bothering to check who the intruder was, drawing Magnussen’s wandering attention.

          The door opened and Walt Breslin walked in, evidently not anticipating Heath to have company. He greeted “ma’am”, courteously, nodding once, initially clueless… then he froze, gaze lingering on her impassive face, his suspicion gradually followed by sheer confusion. His expression was priceless; worth framing. The man was so stunned that he didn’t even acknowledge Heath’s presence. Magnussen bestowed upon him a wicked, nearly imperceptible smirk. Yeah, it’s me. PhD in Diplomacy.

          ‘Walt,’ droned Heath, clearing his throat, gesturing him invitingly to enter the office.

          It took Breslin several seconds to snap out of it and reluctantly shut the door behind him. This should be interesting. Magnussen figured that he wouldn’t be particularly delighted with the new kid at the Leyenda playground.

          ‘This is Agent Magnussen,’ continued Heath, oblivious to – or actively ignoring – the scornful glares being exchanged, ‘Agent Moss’ replacement.’

          Heath must’ve expected them to shake hands and be cordial, yet neither moved a muscle, nor showed any intention in that regard. Breslin seemed to be fuming in the subtlest way that Magnussen had ever witnessed somebody fume. He stood a few meters away from Heath, opposite from where she sat on the desk, quietly chewing gum, his thumbs tucked in his brown belt. Cornered by wolves and weighing his options.

          ‘We’ve met before,’ revealed Breslin, detached – though his gruffy voice gave the impression that he was containing his acidity – addressing Heath, his eyes glued to Magnussen, ‘Yesterday, at Guadalajara Airport.’

          Heath’s quizzical look didn’t solidify into further questions on the subject. Meanwhile, Magnussen tried to pick apart Breslin’s cryptic demeanor; she envisioned that he assumed that he was stuck in some elaborate trap designed and set up by her in order to trick him and make him appear like a fool, which was far from the truth. Besides, the guy ought to have a shred of sense of humor, right? Magnussen herself hadn’t predicted Breslin’s arrival, since Heath had failed to notify her. So, Heath summoned both of us here and coincidentally omitted to tell us about each other? Two birds, one stone.

          ‘Well,’ began Heath, licking his lips, ‘Magnussen’s one of the most gifted women we’ve encountered in our international students’ program… She worked with Camarena and helped obtain valuable intel on the Guadalajara cartel. Magnussen knows the criminal mind like the back of her hand.’

          Magnussen whipped her head around, her heart drumming in her chest, when the door violently flung open, interrupting Heath’s speech. Jesus fucking Christ. At least Breslin had knocked.

          ‘Sorry,’ babbled a tall man in glasses, his fingers squeezing the doorknob, ‘Toft’s on the phone for you, sir.’

          Heath’s face mimicked something akin to satisfaction after receiving the news. Magnussen couldn’t determine whether to rejoice over the fact that the agent was put out of his misery. It was getting good. I enjoyed the line about the criminal mind.

          ‘Thank you, James,’ replied Heath, dexterously buttoning his suit, ‘Apologies. You’ll have to excuse me. I believe you two have a lot to catch up on. Walt, could you brief Magnussen on Belize and the latest lead?’

          Belize, huh? That part was excluded from her reports. Heath accompanied James out of the room, leaving Breslin and Magnussen to metaphorically circle one another like birds of prey. If he offered his condolences or dared pity her, she would scream. Breslin tilted his head to the side slightly, his curls falling over the wrinkles on his forehead. The agent’s hawkish stare locked on her in an ineffective attempt to intimidate her. For a long time, they sized each other up, silently. The collar of a T-shirt peeked from underneath the blue checkered flannel that hugged his slim form, similar to the grey one that he had sported the previous day. Magnussen wondered why the hell Breslin wore an additional layer in Mexico’s heat. Self-consciousness? His rolled-up sleeves exposed a silver watch on his left wrist. Magnussen couldn’t help her puzzled frown upon spotting a crumpled rag shoved in the pocket of his dark jeans. The fuck?

          ‘So, you’re the rookie,’ accused Breslin, at last, bitterly, crossing his hairy arms over his chest, his lower back resting against the computer’s table, ‘You’re younger than I thought.’

          Magnussen scoffed shamelessly loudly, already hearing the complaints about her behavior being “grossly unprofessional.” Still, she considered it basic human decency to inform someone whenever they uttered stupid shit. Teach them early or they’ll end up president.

          ‘Bet you were expecting a toothless fossil,’ she theorized, wryly.

          ‘Harvard educated, too,’ joked Breslin, the corners of his mouth inching upwards. The fleeting moment passed, and he suffocated Amusement in its cradle, growing condescending, ‘DEA ain’t in the habit of doing favors for people like you.’

          What kind would those be? Left-wingers?... And how is recruiting me for the War on Drugs beneficial?... Mental gymnastics.

          ‘Oh, they’re not doing me any favors,’ corrected Magnussen, brazenly, ‘I think they’re doing Leyenda a favor.’

          Her response had clearly struck a nerve, if Breslin’s clenched jaw were any indication. She shifted, adjusting her position on the desk, unfazed. Bring it, cowboy. Magnussen’s reasoning – her being the training wheels on the DEA’s slow, classified bicycle – actually had more plausibility.

          ‘You’re getting off on the wrong foot with your boss, sweetheart,’ warned Breslin, maintaining his calm, despite the venom dripping from his tone and his darkening glare.

          ‘Should I try the other foot, then?’, suggested Magnussen, innocently, ‘And you’re not my boss.’ She pushed a pencil, watching it spin on the table’s surface as she calculated her next step. ‘For the record, I didn’t seek you out or anything like that. I recognized you from your photo in the Leyenda documents. Figured I’d say hello.’

          ‘You lied your ass off,’ contradicted Breslin, immediately, borderline offended, ‘I mean, even your accent’s gone.’

          Getting nostalgic, buddy? Magnussen was pleasantly surprised; she hadn’t pegged him as the type to be into accents, let alone treat them with respect. Hell, the guy was from Houston. Fucking Texas.

          ‘I could keep it for you,’ she teased, flirtatiously, twisting the ring on her middle finger, ‘And I didn’t lie about everything. Out of the Blue is my favorite Electric Light Orchestra album. Sofia’s my middle name. I’m not Italian, but I know the language. I did my Criminology master’s in Mexico–’

          ‘I’m aware,’ grumbled Breslin, rudely interrupting her enumeration, earning an irked sigh from her, ‘I’ve read your file.’

          They mention my music taste in there? Dope. No pun intended. If he were impressed, Breslin didn’t convey it. Tough crowd. Magnussen herself wasn’t faring much better; her bona fide reactions were a breed on the brink of extinction. The DEA doesn’t want authenticity from me… or anyone else.

          ‘Oh, I love it when a man takes an interest,’ she jested, sardonic, lifting her chin.

          ‘Cops ain’t allowed to show their tattoos,’ lectured Breslin, implicit expression insinuating that Magnussen had to be in possession of all of the facts, which she absolutely wasn’t.

          After she arduously wracked her brain for a clue as to what the hell he was referring to – briefly panicking that he had seen something that he wasn’t meant to – Magnussen deduced that Breslin must have been alluding to yesterday’s interaction. Oh, please.

          ‘I’m not a cop,’ she pointed out, smiling falsely, ‘And I didn’t show you anything. It’s not my fault that you were looking where you weren’t supposed to.’

          The audacity. Magnussen tapped her heel against the floor, petulantly, chewing the inside of her bottom lip – mindful of her lipstick. She paused, suddenly recalling Heath’s instructions, astonished that she had paid attention to his words.

          ‘What’s in Belize?’, she interrogated, narrowing her eyes suspiciously to regard Breslin, who cocked an equally doubtful eyebrow at her.

          For fuck’s sake. He hesitated, understandably distrustful of her. Magnussen didn’t trust him, either. They were mere strangers, forced to collaborate. Sure, she could be demanding sometimes, but if the two of them were to work together, they would have to at least share intel. So, by withholding information, Breslin was actively preventing her from doing her job, and Magnussen would not tolerate that.

          ‘Amado Carrillo Fuentes,’ provided Breslin, cautiously, ‘He was sent to Juárez to manage Acosta. Bought a bunch of planes at an auction in Belmopan. We put transponders on ‘em so we could track his movements.’

          Federation’s expanding. Soon, they’ll purchase the U.S. Air Force… if they haven’t already. Magnussen found the usage of “manage” intriguing. Acosta’s causing trouble in paradise?

          ‘That’s why you were at the airport yesterday,’ she alleged, solving the mystery.

          ‘Well done, Rookie,’ jeered Breslin, derisive, ‘You’re catching up.’

          Magnussen rolled her eyes, a blasé snort escaping her, yet she decided to be merciful and let his insolence slide. She had other urgent businesses to tend to.

          ‘What about Calderoni?’, she insisted, admiring her black manicured fingernails, ‘He reached out at all?’

          Although pressing the issue could prove futile, Magnussen refused to accept that she was beating a dead horse. As they had done in many cases, the Americans had been quick to prematurely dismiss the inconvenience – namely, Calderoni. Magnussen, however, reckoned that there was more to that story and to the commander, and she was willing to clash with the DEA over it. She had to exhaust all of the resources.

          ‘What for?’, retorted Breslin, with an indifferent shrug, ‘He made his choice. Doesn’t seem like he’s on our side.’

          Ugh. Kindergarteners’ Guide to Law Enforcement: Us v. Them.

          ‘Neither is the United Nations Commission on Human Rights,’ sassed Magnussen before emphasizing, ‘This is Mexico, Agent Breslin. You need somebody on the inside.’

          ‘We’ve been getting along just fine without him,’ affirmed Breslin, stubbornly.

          ‘Because illegally kidnapping a gynecologist is so damn difficult,’ argued Magnussen, harshly, nostrils flaring.

          ‘The fuck d’you know about it?’, deadpanned Breslin.

          ‘I know that when you start moving furniture around, people stub their toes and get mad,’ she elaborated, matter-of-factly.

          That’s what had happened to an ambitious Kiki. Go knocking on enough doors asking for the devil and eventually he may answer. Magnussen wasn’t keen on repeating past mistakes; not with such high stakes.

          ‘That’s the Leyenda playbook, Rookie,’ explained Breslin, oddly patient, ‘You put guys in custody, use leverage to get them to flip on the next asshole, and you move up the chain.’

          The same chain that strangles everyone who makes too much noise? Yeah, right. Breslin’s misplaced optimism was a bit endearing. A bit.

          ‘You bagged a few shrimps,’ commented Magnussen, smirking triumphantly, ‘How do you plan to bag the barracuda? Pry him from the PRI’s claws?’

          ‘One day,’ confirmed Breslin, foolishly confident, ‘Someone always talks.’

          Or gets eaten. The system had all kinds of medicine for one’s conditions. Admittedly, the Americans’ naïveté was entertaining; they honestly thought that they could go against a political party that had adapted and stayed in power for decades. Politics chews people alive and spits them out. It takes a special sort of asshole to survive in that environment. Magnussen straightened her spine and stretched, impatient to get the hell out of Heath’s office. Lovely chat, Special Agent Breslin. We disagree on… probably everything.

          Oh, one last thing.

          ‘Why do you carry that rag with you?’, she queried, nodding at the object in question, ‘You got hyperhidrosis, like Nixon?’

          It’s been bugging me for a while. Roughly ten minutes.

          Breslin released a quiet, amused huff, attempting to conceal what appeared to be a genuine smile, then headed for the door, which he opened with a soft squeak. Once he was in the doorway, he turned to face Magnussen, abruptly.

          ‘The team’s meeting at five for a surveillance briefing,’ he revealed, fishing in the pocket of his flannel, ‘Derelict building on Paseo de la Reforma, 707, near the indigenous museum.’ He retrieved an item and tossed it at her, adding, ‘Don’t be late, Rookie.’

          Magnussen reflexively caught it and studied it, rather curious. Her golden Colibri lighter, its metal cool to the touch. Nice. She checked her watch, to see how long she had left until the gathering. 2:36. Plenty of time to explore the capital. When she glanced back up, Breslin was already gone.

          Magnussen smiled to herself, pleased.

          Magnussen had not only been the first person to show up at the location, but she had also managed to arrive fifteen minutes earlier, despite taking several lengthy detours. The culprits for her “rush” had been her raging desire to always have the upper hand – even over her soon-to-be-coworkers – and the damn British punctuality, which she could deny all she wanted; Magnussen had grudgingly acquired it while living in London, the same way that one catches the flu.

          The hide and seek mission required parking her car farther away from the busy boulevard, sneaking between buildings in order to find the place, and frequently looking over her shoulder to ensure that nobody followed her. Magnussen hesitated at the skeletal complex’s entrance, where the missing door introduced a long, humid hall. As she advanced, the bright, natural light behind her and the darkness ahead began to feel like an ironic metaphor for her return to Mexico.

          The eerie appearance initially led Magnussen to suspect that she had landed in the wrong “derelict building.” Must, mold, and cobwebs covered the flakes of orange paint on the walls, bare lightbulbs hung from the ceiling, and the damp cement floor – whose small cracks were an ordeal for her heels – forced Magnussen to crinkle her nose. The cigarette butts on the ground, half a dozen scattered chairs, and a corkboard were the sole indication of human life. Most of the thick pillars looked like they might collapse if somebody stomped their feet. I won’t do that ‘cause it’ll fuck up my shoes. The sounds of cars honking and dogs barking outside slipped in through square windowless holes. Charming. What had Magnussen expected, anyway? Leyenda was a classified operation. They wouldn’t meet in the U.S. consulate’s offices.

          Or, Breslin had lied about the gathering and pulled a ridiculously petty prank on her to avenge his injured ego after her daring stunt at the airport. Magnussen wasn’t familiar enough with the man to determine whether he would stoop that low. He works in law enforcement, so… probably. Still, her trip to Mexico City hadn’t been entirely useless. Once she had parted with the embassy, Magnussen had eaten lunch – consisting of grilled octopus with lemons and roasted potatoes – at La Corriente Cevicheria Nais, successfully avoided alcohol, savored her watermelon ice cream from Joe Gelato while she walked around Plaza Washington, and her last stop had been at the Museo de Cera. Magnussen had visited the capital a couple of times before, and she had been eager to explore more of it, especially now that she had a new, albeit temporary vehicle.

          Mexico City, aka CDMX, had been the illustrious capital of New Spain; the oldest in the Americas and one of two established by indigenous people. According to legend, the Mexicas’ primary god Huitzilopochtli revealed the site where they would build their home by showing them a golden eagle devouring a rattlesnake, perched on a prickly pear. The Aztecs originally constructed the city on a group of islands in Lake Texcoco as “Tenochtitlan”, in 1325. After the 1521 siege, which almost annihilated it, it was redesigned and rebuilt conforming with Spanish urban standards. And who completed all of the heavy labor? The indigenous people, of course. Tenochtitlan also earned a new name – Mexico – because it was easier for the colonizers to pronounce. In the 19th century, Mexico City became the center-stage of the country’s political disagreements, witnessing countless coups before the victory of the Liberals following the Reform War. The city was the target of one of the two French invasions to Mexico, and it was occupied for a year by U.S. troops during the Mexican-American War. Akin to Jalisco’s Guadalajara, Mexico City thrived under Porfirio Díaz’s rule, developing modern infrastructure – schools, hospitals, factories; Colonia Roma and Reforma Avenue represent the durable results of this period’s transformation. Throughout the Mexican Revolution, the city’s center suffered artillery attacks, causing numerous civilian casualties and the loss of trust in Francisco I. Madero’s government. The Tlatelolco massacre of students ahead of the 1968 Olympic Games took place in the capital. Its landmarks include Ángel de la Independencia, Zócalo, Chapultepec Castle, Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Estadio Azteca, Torre Latinoamericana, and Monumento a la Revolución.

          Some folks may have viewed her interest in Mexico’s history and culture as peculiar at best – even inappropriate, considering her current job – but she had actually applied for the DEA’s program largely because she had wanted to see Mexico… and because her professor had nagged her about it. The downsides to her stay in Mexico had been, in no particular order, Maia’s absence, her obnoxious roommate – whom she had made great efforts to tolerate – having to wake up early, and having to deal with American bureaucrats on a daily basis. Alas, Magnussen chose to give Breslin the benefit of the doubt and wait for her beloved colleagues to materialize. Worst case scenario? The display of benevolence would delay her drive to Guadalajara by twenty minutes. Breslin would pay for his imprudence.

          Better make myself at home. Magnussen claimed her territory by dragging a chair to one of the columns, cringing internally at the deafening, metallic noise it produced. Elegant. She plopped down, sagging, carefully adjusted her shoulder holster, fished in the pocket of her leather jacket for the solution to all of her problems, and lit a cigarette with her recently returned Colibri. She inhaled deeply, allowing her eyes to fall shut. Finally. Magnussen had been itching for a cigarette for hours. She blew the smoke through her slightly pursed lips, watching it fill the air. She lifted her feet to rest them against the pillar and examined her shoes. Hmm… Should’ve worn sneakers.

          Maybe she was just being dramatic, and the situation wasn’t that dire. It’s been known to happen, occasionally. Magnussen had somewhat enjoyed Heath’s compliment-improvisational skills; probably the roughest five minutes of his whole life. Breslin’s intimidation fiasco with his special agent rank, Texan accent, and mustache hadn’t been terrible, either. Magnussen hated to admit that she had contemplated his lesson. You put guys in custody, use leverage to get them to flip on the next asshole, and you move up the chain. His methods evidently diverged from Kiki’s and his partners’ – not that they were an example to follow – and even from Magnussen’s. For one, she preferred to capture criminals alive; it had been scientifically proven that they were much more useful with a pulse… and intel.

          Breslin and Camarena weren’t that dissimilar; sharp, stubborn, ambitious, naïve. She had seen where ambition led in this job. Or was death simply an occupational hazard? Magnussen ought to remind herself that she was assessing two different agents. She and Kiki had been close friends. With Breslin, she was barely at an offered-a-lighter level. If things had been complicated before, for the Guadalajara team, then they were worse now, for Leyenda. How could they dismantle a powerful cartel protected by the government and law enforcement agencies? The perfect conspiracy, with Félix Gallardo at the top of the pyramid, untouchable. What guarantee did Leyenda have that they wouldn’t end up like Camarena? Gallardo was as captivating as he was dangerous; distinct from other drug traffickers. In fact, given his intriguing evolution, he wasn’t a typical narco at all. Graduated high school, studied business in college, ex MFJP, former bodyguard for the governor of Sinaloa, godfather to his son, the brains behind the most notorious drug trafficking organization in Mexico, and the last cartel leader standing. Quite the résumé.

          Magnussen also had her skepticism about the Mexican cops in the task force. No hard feelings. Mexican police were infamous for their corruption. She was unsure about who had recruited them; her money was on Breslin. Speak of the devil… She and Mejía had passed by one another at the airport; Magnussen wondered whether he would recognize her. She yawned, unnecessarily covering her mouth with her left fist. Oh, well. She wasn’t too preoccupied by the answer to that question. She would sleep fine at night, once the new place curse had vanished. Damn. The homecoming of Magnussen’s cynicism. Positive aspects, positive aspects… She was genuinely keen on meeting Petski, since he had worked with Kiki in Calexico, prior to his transfer to Guadalajara.

          Magnussen didn’t have the vaguest idea where to begin. The entire mission seemed like an impossible maze. Her instinct told her to start with the guards that had been present at the 881 Lope de Vega house; they must have seen and heard more than anybody else had. Easier to blackmail, usually underestimated by the capos… Okay, pause. Magnussen needed to hit the brakes and reacquaint herself with Mexico. She was still unclear about the amount of independence that she had within the operation. With Breslin calling the shots? Little chance of her escaping being handcuffed to a desk. Not to mention that she was young, foreign, and inexperienced. Nails in the coffin.

          Magnussen quietly hummed the tune of Depeche Mode’s Puppets, longing for her stereo. We’ll be reunited soon, my love. The band was releasing their fifth album in less than two weeks; something to look forward to. My neighbors will despise me… unless they know what good music is. She would not accept any Depeche Mode slander in her atheist household… Well, apartment.

          The distant sound of footsteps and the chatter of people caught her feeble attention. She innately tensed, setting her feet down and crossing one leg over the other, and turned towards the source of the noise, eyes fixed on the hall entrance, in anticipation. A group of four individuals emerged, comprised of men she gradually identified as Mejía, Garza, Álvarez, and Méndez. The gang froze in confusion upon noticing her. Magnussen had immediately recognized Mejía; his stupid mustache was hard to miss. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it. She concluded that the pictures in the Leyenda file were misleading. The mass of muscles on Álvarez’s body rivaled that of the gel in his hair. Méndez was still bald, yet shorter than she had assumed, and sported the beginning of a beer belly. Garza pointed his prominent nose in her direction, as if to sniff her like a bloodhound. He also had a bit of stubble. Is that on purpose? The ex MFJP cop must have been as dangerous as he appeared – a stark contrast from Mejía, whose cocky attitude radiated like a nuclear powerplant. Jalisco State Police shit.

          ‘Bienvenidos, chicos,’ greeted Magnussen, dramatically raising her arms in the air, flashing a sarcastic smirk. (Welcome, boys.)

          Mejía let out a patronizing chuckle. Judging by the reception, the others didn’t find anything comical. Truthfully, neither did Magnussen.

          ‘¿Estas pérdida, cariño?’, inquired Mejía, flirtatiously. (Are you lost, sweetheart?)

          So, he didn’t recognize her. Kinda embarrassing for a guy in law enforcement. What is it with these dudes and “sweetheart”, anyway? Universal ape brain.

          ‘Espero que no,’ droned Magnussen, wryly, faking disappointment. (I sure hope not.)

          After all of the trouble that she had gone through… That would be unfortunate. She took a drag from her cigarette while Palacios and Morales joined the party, equally confused. Garza subtly moved his hand behind his back, to rest it on the weapon that he undoubtedly had tucked in his jeans.

          ‘I got one, too,’ informed Magnussen, playfully, opening the lapel of her jacket to show them the gun nestled in her shoulder holster.

          Garza’s grip visibly tightened, in warning. Álvarez crossed his burly arms over his chest, on guard, glaring daggers into her. His biceps were the size of her head, and they could probably easily squash it. How macho. Magnussen didn’t flinch.

          ‘What the fuck is going on?’, demanded an alarmed Palacios, whose innovative contribution to the team was a goatee.

          Morales, the second youngest member of Leyenda and the second clean-shaven one, lowered his sunglasses on his nose, to take a better look at her. He was handsome and… wore a light blue shirt with black polka dots? Fascinating. Magnussen calmly concealed her weapon, as a sign of peace, having no intention of shooting anyone… yet.

          Breslin’s messianic arrival, followed by Orozco’s and Petski’s, interrupted the ensuing gun measuring contest. Orozco physically resembled a kitten and had a finer mustache than Mejía did. Petski seemed to be the tallest and the only blonde. Breslin walked past the guys, unperturbed, his aviators hanging by the neck of his red T-shirt.

          ‘I see y’all met the rookie,’ he commented, indignantly, side-eyeing Magnussen.

          Someone’s holding a grudge… and nothing else. A wave of incredulous, flabbergasted reactions erupted, and Magnussen felt like she was in middle school.

          ‘Bullshit!’, dismissed Méndez.

          ‘This is the new kid?’, checked Mejía.

          ‘No fucking way!’, protested Palacios.

          Breslin remained silent, continuing to pin photographs of drug traffickers to the corkboard. Félix Gallardo, Esparragoza Moreno, Carrillo Fuentes, Acosta, Palma, two Arellano Félix brothers. Interesting choices for foreplay. The Leyenda boys scattered, either occupying chairs or leaning against columns, ingesting the information, and maintaining a reasonable distance from Magnussen.

          ‘Alright,’ announced Breslin, spinning on his heel to face the audience, fumbling with a lighter.

          A fit of jealousy shot through Magnussen at the sight of it. He had replaced her so swiftly and cruelly. She was utterly devastated, so she resumed her favorite unhealthy activity. Wound licking disguised as smoking.

          ‘Intel was solid,’ he went on, tone rising a quarter of an octave, supposedly to indicate contentment, ‘Carrillo Fuentes bought six 727’s at the auction in Belize. Thanks to our lock-picking artist, we put transponders on all of them. If we’re able to track Fuentes’ movements, it could lead us to the Federation’s distribution hub.’

          Petski’s congratulatory slap on Mejía’s shoulder enlightened Magnussen as to the identity of the “lock-picking artist.” In her expert opinion, Breslin didn’t deserve the voice that he possessed. She figured that he had already been kicked out of the curly hair community for exceeding the limit of conservatism accepted.

          ‘Does this tie into the intel about Gallardo meeting with the Cali cartel in Panama?’, speculated Morales, rubbing his chin, reflective.

          Wait, what? Magnussen swatted away an annoying fly, tsking in frustration at the distraction. Fuck off. You traded the smell of shit for the smell of cigarettes?

          ‘Sure, they could be related,’ conceded Breslin before civilly addressing Álvarez, ‘Mat, you wanna fill us in?’

          ‘Sorry, chief,’ replied Álvarez, using the privilege of sitting down to stretch his legs, ‘Gallardo’s underground again. No one is keeping the plazas in check. Tijuana and Sinaloa have been executing each other’s men for weeks, but… Esparragoza Moreno, alias El Azul, is allegedly wanted by the DFS.’

          Magnussen scanned the room and found herself staring at Morales, who was insistently scribbling on a small piece of paper on his thigh, uncomfortably hunched over. Everybody else was immersed in the details being fed to them. Depressing.

          ‘No shit,’ chided Breslin, his surprise mirrored by most of the chaps’ expressions.

          ‘DFS eating one of their own?’, articulated Orozco, suspicious.

          A smug Álvarez nodded in confirmation. Jesus fucking Christ. It’s a façade. Magnussen discarded the butt of her cigarette on the ground and crushed it under her shoe, miraculously suppressing the urge to intervene.

          ‘The Feds can’t get their hands on him,’ declared Breslin, sternly, ‘Moreno’s gotta be taken into American custody and interrogated, same as Zuno.’

          Okay, hit the brakes, cowboy. Carrillo Fuentes buying planes, Acosta rebelling in Juárez, tensions between Sinaloa and Tijuana, Gallardo vacationing in Panama… Something’s up. The Thin Man’s scheming right under our fucking noses. Magnussen nervously wiped her sweaty palms on her pants, gathering the courage to speak.

          ‘My informant says Moreno is going to be in Mexico City next week,’ added Méndez, backed by the team’s murmurs of approval.

          ‘Good,’ emphasized Breslin, ‘We’re gonna bag the fucking asshole.’

          Incapable of restraining her candidness, Magnussen involuntarily snorted at the sheer absurdity of the discussion. She was starting to understand why Leyenda’s progress had been slow and scarce. Planning abductions over lunch in abandoned buildings granted the operation filibuster potential. Forget the corrupt Mexican system. The U.S. had an immense management issue. Alas, her act of defiance didn’t go unnoticed. How could it?

          ‘Got a problem, Rookie?’, asked Breslin, sounding like a disgruntled teacher.

          All eyes turned to her, gazes varying. A sane person would have shut up. Well, not Magnussen. Her heart hammered against her ribcage as she hesitantly glanced at her colleagues. The shift in the atmosphere was palpable. I’ll be crucified… but when did that ever stop me?

          ‘I think you’re overestimating Azul’s role in the Camarena story,’ objected Magnussen, coolly.

          ‘Oh, really?’, jeered Breslin, impassive.

          ‘Not a single witness placed him at the scene of the kidnapping,’ she elaborated, adamantly, ‘His voice isn’t on the tapes, either. He is in the DFS, and it’s not the first time the DFS engages in cannibalism. Their former commander Miguel Nazar Haro was corrupt. He’s still at large. Are we just going after everyone associated with the DFS?’

          ‘Why not?’, retorted Álvarez, snickering.

          ‘Fine by me,’ decreed Breslin, shrugging, ‘Moreno was arrested twice for drug trafficking in the past, and he’s been linked to the Guadalajara cartel. That’s good enough for me.’

          ‘Maybe I got the wrong memo,’ reiterated Magnussen, audacious, ‘Leyenda’s purpose is to bring to justice those involved in the Camarena case, not to imprison every drug trafficker in Mexico–’

          ‘You’re lecturing us–,’ interrupted Mejía, offended.

          ‘I wasn’t done talking,’ she snapped, harshly, then proceeded, stolid, despite the startled reactions, ‘Azul won’t rat out anybody, especially from the government. If the DFS want to arrest him, let them. Interfering will cause a shitstorm and blow whatever cover we have left… I think subtlety would be wise. He ends up in jail? He’ll probably escape. Díaz-Parada and Sicilia Falcón proved it’s possible… Moreno’s not a gynecologist. He’s an active-duty intelligence officer.’

          ‘So was Verdin,’ recalled Garza, indifferent, ‘And he talked.’

          ‘Because you shot him,’ argued a pragmatic Morales, ‘Not one of our best moments. Verdin definitely put us on the cartel’s radar.’

          ‘Arrive at your point,’ ordered Breslin, impatiently.

          Magnussen briefly lost track of the conversation, too stunned by the fact that Morales sided with her. They fucking shot their prisoner? She released a long, exasperated sigh. Here we go. Cops famously respond positively to brutal honesty.

          ‘Moreno’s a diversion,’ she affirmed, warily, ‘The reports I read mentioned Gallardo paying a visit to Juan Nepomuceno Guerra in Matamoros… That can’t be a coincidence. The Gulf is the only independent cartel in the country. If he lured them into the Federation, Gallardo would have a monopoly on the Mexican route and could outmaneuver the Colombians. He’s not ignoring the conflict between the Tijuana and Sinaloa plazas. He's intentionally focusing on Juárez. That’s why Carrillo Fuentes is buying planes.’

          ‘Interesting theory, Rookie,’ concluded Breslin, condescendingly, lighting a cigarette.

          ‘We don’t have sufficient intel to back this up,’ reminded Palacios, skeptical, scratching his goatee, ‘We act, we get burned.’

          Inquisition trauma. Bad for business. Although, the Mexicans in the operation were exposed to greater risk than their American counterparts.

          ‘Gallardo’s not a stupid man,’ stressed Magnussen, stubbornly.

          ‘He did kill a U.S. federal agent,’ challenged an obnoxious Orozco, earning an eyeroll from her.

          Extremely debatable. The Mexican government was a more plausible candidate.  

          ‘That’s a… gross oversimplification,’ scolded Magnussen, increasingly irritated.

          Whoever disagrees is a narrow-minded moron. Some of her coworkers clearly couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

          ‘What are you proposing?’, taunted Méndez, cutting to the chase, ‘That we go after Guerra, too?’

          ‘Fuck no,’ scoffed Magnussen, scowling, ‘Guerra’s experienced; been in the opium game since the Prohibition, so… when most of you were born.’ She smirked mischievously at the choir of groans and chuckles. ‘Guerra has political connections on both sides of the border. His brother was head of the state district attorney’s office in Tamaulipas during Balboa’s administration in the 1960s. His nephew is the mayor of Matamoros… Guerra won’t spend a day in prison… However, the ex Interpol chief is currently on the run and he’s been tied to the Camarena case… and there’s extradition rumors for Arturo Durazo Moreno; another former DFS commander.’

          Silence finally settled, and Magnussen pondered whether the team was considering her input. She used the opportunity to ruffle her bangs – careful with her brows – and to check her watch. Hurry up, lads. I got a 6-hour drive to Guadalajara.

          ‘Well, you did your homework, Rookie,’ remarked Breslin, whose tone fueled a creeping impression within Magnussen that her efforts had been in vain, ‘Can’t argue with that. I’ll make sure to write your opinions in the suggestion box.’

          Mejía burst into exaggerated laughter, clapping his hands. Easily entertained… or he wants to fuck Breslin.

          ‘Unless Agent Magnussen has other conspiracies that she would like to share,’ bargained Garza, foxily, flaunting a shit-eating grin that Magnussen desired to scrub away with insecticide.

          ‘Last one,’ assured Magnussen, feigning gullibility, ‘You get laid regularly.’

          Orozco, Morales, Álvarez, and Méndez joined Mejía’s louder and louder laughing fit. Garza’s grin gradually disappeared. Even the corners of Breslin’s mouth inched upwards.

          ‘Alright, fellas,’ jested Breslin while the chaos steadily died down, ‘Let’s wrap this up. Back to Guadalajara tomorrow. We’ll update you on any developments on the Carrillo Fuentes lead. Mat, stay on Moreno. Esparragoza, that is. Hopefully, we’re gonna bag him soon.’

          ‘Got it, boss,’ acknowledged Álvarez, obediently.

          The gang took that as a sign to start packing. What a bummer of a convention. Magnussen’s expectations hadn’t been high, anyway. As far as first briefings went, this one had been decent. Morales headed directly to Breslin and Petski, who were unpinning pictures and removing the corkboard from the wall. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Classified gossip. Palacios, Garza, and Méndez gathered the chairs – including hers – chatting among themselves.

          In less than five minutes, the majority of members vacated the room. Magnussen cocked a curious eyebrow – bracing herself for impact – when Morales walked towards her. Tall and in shape, he had a confident stroll and dimples in his cheeks. His sunglasses now rested atop his wavy, brown hair.

          ‘Hi, I’m Manny,’ he greeted, friendly, stopping in front of her and extending his hand, ‘Welcome to Leyenda.’

          ‘Thanks,’ muttered Magnussen, reluctantly shaking his warm hand, ‘Did you lose a bet, Manny?’

          ‘No, I haven’t,’ he chuckled, offering her a walkie and a note, ‘Here’s your station and a list of everybody’s number.’

          Oh. That’s what he had been writing earlier. Awfully kind. Magnussen deemed it as youth solidarity.

          ‘Thanks,’ she droned, gaze softening, ‘Pretty useful.’

          ‘How has Mexico been treating you?’, inquired Manny, politely.

          ‘Can’t complain,’ admitted Magnussen, contemplative, her arms half circling her waist, ‘Still adjusting… Indulge me for a second. How the hell did you become part of the operation?’

          ‘Graduated ITESO,’ he informed, proudly, ‘Networks and Telecommunications Engineering.’

          ‘You’re overqualified for this job,’ quipped Magnussen, peering at him from underneath her lashes.

          ‘No, no,’ chortled Manny, evidently flattered, ‘But for what it’s worth, I think you were right about Gallardo. Impressive analysis.’

          ‘What is it worth?’, she teased, inclining her head.

          ‘Nothing,’ he stated, sincerely, ‘Walt is in charge. It’s difficult to get him to backtrack… He has good calls, too. The system is tough.’

          ‘Tell me about it,’ huffed Magnussen, wryly.

          ‘We should hang out sometime,’ he invited, jovially, ‘Go for a drink.’

          ‘Hell yeah,’ she approved, nodding eagerly, ‘I like drinking.’

          ‘That’s the Mexican spirit!’, extolled Manny, grinning, beginning to depart, ‘I’ll see you around, Agent!… Cool T-shirt, by the way!’

          The ghost of a genuine smile lingered on Magnussen’s face.

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic​​​ @agirllovespaghetti​​​ @amidalaraan​​​ @artthurshelby​​​ @buttercup--bee​​ @cleastrnge​​ @dameronology​ @frodo-sam​​ @itssmashedavo​​ @ladygangsters​​​ @maevesdarling​​​ @maevemills​​ @maharani-radha​​​ @mitchi-c​​​ @moonlight-prose​​ @nicolettegreen​​​ @pascalisthepunkest​​ @queenofthefaceless​​​ @revolution-starter​​ @sullho​​ @themangolorian​​ @tisbeautifulfreedom​​​ @qoedameron​​

END THE WAR ON DRUGS:​ Equity Organization & Drug Policy Alliance

READ MORE: Magnussen’s T-shirt, DEA employment requirements, Nixon’s hyperhidrosis, Mexico City, La Corriente Cevichería Nais, Museo de Cera

[cregan-starks]

Colibri | Beholden

Summary: A stranger offers Walt a light.

Words: 5,459

Pairing: Walt Breslin x OC (not really)

Warnings: politics, Ronald Reagan, Christianity, mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of blood, mentions of drug trafficking, mentions of guns, mentions of communism, implied nudity, one innuendo, sexism, alcohol, smoking, cussing. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: This chapter totally didn’t take ages ‘cause I had to figure out Magnussen’s apartment on my own. If you wish to be added to or removed from my taglist, my DMs and ask box are open.

Credits: Huge thank you to my beta @maharani-radha-writes​ 💛 and to my darling @cleastrnge​ for the Mexican Spanish translations 💜

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MARCH 4, 1986

GUADALAJARA, MEXICO

          The trip to Belize had been an unforeseen but welcome win, with Calderoni’s intel on Amado Carrillo Fuentes actually turning out to be useful. Federation’s building its own air fleet. Carrillo Fuentes had bought six Boeing 747s at the auction, and Ossie had successfully planted transponders on all of them. Walt hoped that this would give them a new lead to pursue. Progress had been slow in the past few months, so he expected Heath to be satisfied with the latest achievement. He hadn’t taken it well when Walt had shown him the list of the expensive equipment that their Belize mission would require. The positive aspects pretty much ended there. Calderoni would inevitably come to demand updates and, although Walt didn’t entirely trust the commander, he had to admit that he hadn’t steered them wrong, yet. Besides, Calderoni was the most valuable informant that they had. He wasn’t exactly disposable.

          Oh, and on top of that, Heath had notified him that another agent would replace Kenny, which Walt considered suspicious. What the fuck’s that about? He had selected his colleagues himself, but, for some reason, the DEA wouldn’t allow him anywhere near this guy. Walt despised being kept in the dark. He had been assigned to head the operation, and he firmly believed that Leyenda didn’t need an additional team member. Worst case scenario? They would send a rich asshole’s Ivy League prick of a son.

          Walt lightly kicked Danilo’s bag with his foot, to move it away, releasing a yawn that he shamelessly didn’t hide. He felt exhausted – having not rested the previous night – and despite his efforts, Walt couldn’t rub the sleep out of his eyes. He put his aviators on his nose, further sinking into his seat before lifting his wrist to check his watch. His partners had abandoned him roughly fifteen minutes ago; Ossie had gone to the bathroom, and Danilo had left to grab food. Based on their prolonged absence, they were both stuck waiting in endless queues. The Guadalajara airport seemed particularly crowded today; people stood in line at counters to purchase tickets, boarded their planes, dozed off in their chairs, and the security personnel supervised everyone like teachers at a playground. If the smell of cheap coffee weren’t overwhelming enough, the place was loud, too – from the chatter of the staff and tourists to the sound of squeaky wheels sliding across the tiles. Occasionally, a woman announced in Spanish the departures and delays on the speakers.

          A couple of rows in front of him, a kid insistently tugged on her grandfather’s sleeve, to get his attention. The elderly man continued to read his newspaper, unfazed, causing the girl to cross her arms over her chest and pout. Walt smiled fondly at the sight. Looks like we’ll both be here a while. With napping off the table, the last resort appeared to be indulging in his favorite vice, so he started to fish in the pocket of his jeans for a cigarette.

          When he attempted to light it, however, Walt failed spectacularly. Second time, third, fourth, fifth, same result, testing his thinning patience. That kinda day, huh? He eventually gave up on the endeavor with a heavy sigh, running his hand through his curls, in frustration. Maybe he should call Sal and ask him where the fuck he was, since he was supposed to pick them up.

          ‘Need a light?’, quipped a smooth, feminine voice, next to him.

          Fuck. Walt turned towards the intruder, slightly startled. He hadn’t even noticed the woman’s presence until then. Shit. I’m getting old. Or she sneaked up on cops for a living. She held out a lighter, expectantly, and her own already lit cigarette in the other hand.

          ‘Uh, thanks,’ muttered Walt, accepting the offering, hesitantly.

          ‘You are welcome,’ she chirped, in a thick European accent.

          A passenger plane landed on the tarmac, outside the immense windows, temporarily distracting Walt, but a custodian dutifully mopping the floor blocked his view. Great. He took a drag from his cigarette, pushing his aviators back on his head, to study his companion more meticulously. Her young features attested that she couldn’t have been older than thirty. The sunlight reflected in her eyes – remarkably green – yet Walt found them unsettling. Her dark hair fell in waves, framing her oval face, ending above her shoulders, and her bangs revealed her full, arched eyebrows. She tittered, averting her gaze, shyly, fiddling with the key ring attached to the luggage trapped between her knees. Walt glanced at the dark red lipstick stains on her cigarette.

          ‘You are staring,’ she commented, practically murmuring, leaning a bit closer.

          Walt remained silent, unsure what to add. What can I say? Guilty as charged. To his knowledge, staring hadn’t been criminalized… and, honestly, she wasn’t unpleasant to look at. He unclenched his fist to examine her golden lighter. Colibri. How fancy. Because “smoking” and “pretentious” were mutually exclusive.

          ‘You’re not from here,’ guessed Walt, casually; he could tell from the everything about her, mostly her peculiar accent that he couldn’t pinpoint on the global map – not that he encountered many Europeans.

          ‘Neither are you,’ she teased, flirtatiously, wide lips flashing him a charming grin, ‘So, where are you from?’

          The fuck’s it to you? His disorientated radar didn’t help much. Walt blew the smoke away from her direction as the corners of his mouth tilted upwards. A harmless piece of information, undoubtedly. What if she were a stranger, simply making small talk? Walt ought to loosen up. Not everybody was a narco with ulterior motives.

          ‘Houston,’ he provided, truthfully, stroking his mustache, ‘You?’

          ‘Napoli,’ she acknowledged, then paused in contemplation before curiously inquiring, ‘What brings you to Guadalajara?’

          State secrets, so, mind your business, sweetheart. A Texan in Mexico wasn’t uncommon, but a young Italian woman on her own? Definitely a rarity. Worse, she didn’t strike him as Italian.

          ‘I’m on vacation with my buddies,’ lied Walt, automatically.

          Surely, tracking down Carrillo Fuentes to Belize counted as a vacation. Working for the DEA permitted agents to travel more than the average bureaucrat. Dream job, if one overlooked the shootings, illicit drugs, and shitty salary.

          ‘Well,’ she began, kindly, ‘I hope you enjoy your stay. It is a beautiful city.’

          And an oasis for drug traffickers, but they don’t include that in brochures and leaflets. Judging by her phrasing, it wasn’t her first time in Guadalajara.

          ‘What about you?’, prodded Walt, nodding once, ‘Why are you in Guadalajara?’

          Her answer might’ve been the only highlight of his day – or of the next weeks. This better be good.

          ‘I am doing my PhD,’ she declared, smugly, crossing her arms over her chest, careful of her cigarette.

          Bullshit. Who picks Guadalajara for their PhD? Anyhow, every student had an inner peacock, and Walt might have just discovered how to ruffle this one’s feathers.

          ‘PhD, huh?’, repeated Walt, impressed, ‘What’s your field?’

          Dibs on Arts. If her eccentricity weren’t a testament to it…

          ‘Diplomacy,’ she replied, her half smirk anything but subtle.

          PhD in Diplomacy. What the fuck does that even mean? Walt recalled having a conversation with Heath about the consequences of Leyenda’s actions, following Machaín’s abduction. Heath had warned him about diplomatic repercussions, among others. It’s a good thing we’re not diplomats, Walt had sassed. Miss Napoli here could fit the bill, though.

          ‘That’s rough,’ he snorted, downright patronizingly.

          Walt grew increasingly wary of her, yet he couldn’t identify the major flaw. The polite stranger narrative checked out… until it didn’t. Two gabachos at the airport, and she somehow managed to find him. Strength in numbers, right? Unfortunately, Walt didn’t believe in coincidences.

          ‘I do not mind,’ she admitted, shrugging, ‘I quite like it.’

          ‘Yeah, I bet you do,’ huffed Walt, tone unintentionally implicit.

          They peered at each other, both amused by the innuendo, her eyes flickering with mischief. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, biting her bottom lip. Walt fought the urge to smile. So, she has a sense of humor.

          ‘You haven’t told me your name,’ reminded Walt, spreading his legs to sit comfortably.

          ‘Sofia,’ she disclosed, extending her hand for him to take, ‘What about you?’

          Fair enough. Pretty name for a pretty girl.

          ‘John,’ he introduced himself, dryly, shaking her hand and simultaneously inspecting it.

          She had long, slender fingers, several decorated with rings. Walt noticed the tattoo on her inner wrist; a cat sitting on a crescent moon. Interesting choice. Too bad that the DEA’s policy strictly prohibited him from showing his own tattoos.

          ‘I like your sunglasses, John,’ complimented Sofia, chuckling.

          Was she hitting on him? At this point, Walt couldn’t tell, and he didn’t have time to find out, either. Try again in ten years, sweetheart. After I’ll retire, and you’ll… have a doctorate in Diplomacy or whatever the fuck.

          ‘I like your T-shirt,’ he asserted, referring to Electric Light Orchestra’s colorful spaceship, ‘What’s your favorite album?’

          Walt couldn’t decide what stunned him more: her toned biceps – unusual for a PhD student – or her firm, confident grip – unlike her demeanor. Bit by bit, her alibi fell apart. Or she was an odd character. Convenient excuse.

          ‘Out of the Blue, obviously,’ she claimed, playfully, ‘Mr. Blue Sky is a masterpiece.’

          ‘I prefer Secret Messages,’ grumbled Walt, flicking his cigarette in a nearby trash can.

          Their discussion ended abruptly when a middle-aged man burst into an angry rant in Spanish, at Customs. He seemed to be having problems with his passport. Walt shifted his attention to the screens that displayed flight numbers and cities, despite the blending of colors making him feel dizzy. He craved to lie down and close his eyes, just for one minute. Meanwhile, Sofia used the opportunity to take her leave. She was shorter than Walt anticipated, though the size of her hand compared to his should’ve been a sign.

          ‘Someone is in trouble,’ she observed, nonchalantly, putting out her cigarette with the heel of her shoe, ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, John.’

          ‘Thanks for the lighter,’ said Walt, intending to return the item, after its owner had finished gathering her bags.

          ‘Keep it, cowboy,’ encouraged Sofia, sending him a wicked wink.

          Walt’s breath hitched involuntarily, his response having died on his tongue, promptly followed by panic. He spotted Ossie in the crowd of people, heading their way, his facial expression indicating confusion. Fuck. Seriously? Now? Walt was prepared to jump out of his seat and do damage control, but Ossie and Sofia walked past one another, blissfully unaware – until the former caught the latter turning her head and smiling warmly at Walt. Shit.

          ‘Who was that?’, laughed Ossie, heartily, elbowing him in the side.

          Walt groaned in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose. Fucking hell.

          Confirmed: taxi drivers are talkative in every country. And a little too friendly for Magnussen’s taste. Carlos – who joked that driving is his job and his name is Carlos – had been delighted that his client spoke fluent Spanish and had bombarded her with questions – “¿De dónde eres?”, “¿Es tu primera vez en México?”, “¿Has estado en Guadalajara antes?”, “¿Qué te trae a Guadalajara?” (Where are you from? Is this your first time in Mexico? First time visiting Guadalajara? What brings you here?). Magnussen had politely answered all of them, avoiding the details. After the initial stop – an exchange, of course – Carlos had briefly rambled about the weather before allowing the faint music on the radio to replace him.

          While the taxi drove in comfortable silence, Magnussen absentmindedly stared out of the window. Guadalajara hadn’t changed much since she had last been here. It had an eerie, almost haunting feeling to it, because of the horrors that had happened, yet people had moved on with their lives. Strange, how the world stopped for some, but carried on for most. Coming back reminded Magnussen of the lack of safety that the city brought with it. Except, this time, she wouldn’t attend classes and write papers. Instead, she would become a target for narcos who wanted nothing more than to put a bullet between her eyes.

          Nevertheless, Guadalajara and its rich history continued to fascinate Magnussen. Although its reputation had been tainted by criminal activities, things hadn’t always been like this. The name originated from Arabic, meaning “fortress valley.” Home to the mariachi, tequila, and birria, Guadalajara was “founded” on February 14th, 1542, by the Basque conquistador Cristóbal de Oñata, as the capital of the kingdom of Nueva Galicia, part of the Viceroyalty of New Spain. Allegedly, only 126 people lived there. Several epidemics had dramatically reduced the indigenous population, but by the 19th century, Guadalajara had taken its place as Mexico’s second largest city. In 1810 – the year that marked the beginning of the Mexican War of Independence – priest Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla established the first revolutionary government here. In 1823, it became the capital of Jalisco. The Three-Hour Revolution overthrew President Santa Anna in Guadalajara, and in 1856, at the time of the Reform War, President Benito Juárez made the city the seat of his government. Although Guadalajara had flourished during the Porfiriato, Jalisco saw multiple regional wars following the 1910 Mexican Revolution. The city’s landmarks included Hospicio Cabañas, Templo Expiatorio, the Sanctuary of Guadalupe, and the Metropolitan Cathedral, and it had served as the cradle and dwelling of important figures such as José Clemente Orozco and Luis Barragán.

          When they arrived at the address that Bowen had provided – Av. Ignacio L. Vallarta, nearly three blocks away from the U.S. Consulate – Carlos miraculously found an empty spot in the parking lot, behind the building. On the outside, the construction looked ordinary: a regular, concrete four-store, recently painted. Ironic. Last year, Mexico City had been hit by an 8.1 earthquake; thousands still didn’t have food, water, shelter. Add to that the national economic crisis and you got yourself incompetent leadership. Or worse, ignorant. In Guadalajara, however, the local government was busy repainting shit. The PRI has its priorities sorted.

          Magnussen declined Carlos’ offer to help with her bags, making sure to tip him generously before biding him goodbye. It was a surprisingly cloudy day for Guadalajara, yet pleasantly warm. The gathering of the clouds. She had lived there for two years. Why would the city represent a source of unease? Maybe because the rules had shifted, and so had the territory. Magnussen needed to adapt and accept that she would be obliged to do things she disliked or hadn’t previously done. Her hands would only get dirtier. Bloodier.

          Kiki is worth it, she tried to reason.

          According to Audrey, the neighborhood was quiet, fairly isolated, and far enough from the main road. Good. Magnussen felt safer surrounded by tall buildings. Once indoors, she made the unfortunate discovery that the complex lacked an elevator. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Since her apartment was on the fourth floor, she ended up practically dragging her luggage up the stairs, on her own. The natural light barely illuminated the place, so she had to be extra careful.

          Magnussen’s arms had already begun to object by the time she reached her apartment door. Number 9. She scanned her surroundings, sighing deeply, recalling Bowen’s instructions. Your keys will be in the Aloe’s pot. Luckily, the mission didn’t require any gardening tools; they were hidden among the plant’s fleshy leaves. She inserted the item in the lock, twisted, and entered cautiously, searching for the light switch.

          The grand reveal… Not bad. The hallway was spacious enough to fit a wardrobe. Magnussen closed and locked the door after hauling her bags inside. She stepped out of her shoes, relieved to be rid of the heels, then regarded herself in the mirror on the wall. While she fixed her bangs, Magnussen realized that she saw what she had always seen. A woman, uncertain about her choices and her actions. A tired, fractured soul. A lucky impostor who refused to die. A survivor with slightly uneven eyeliner wings.

          The white oak hardwood flooring creaked softly under her feet as she explored her new home for the upcoming months, possibly years. An idea she had better become adjusted to. I never had a home, she corrected. But that’s not why I’m here.

          In the living room, two steel blue recliners flanked a large, polyester sofa of the same color. The TV – situated opposite the sofa – sat atop a wooden dresser. A rectangular X-base coffee table rested on a burgundy nylon carpet. Further to the right of the TV stood an umber, laminate bookcase. Instinctively, Magnussen pulled the burgundy drapes over the window beside it. One of the tricks she had picked up courtesy of Kiki. The cartel had frequently run surveillance on DEA agents. Lip readers and tailing vehicles may had been their preferred methods, but they hadn’t shied away from violent measures to remind the gringos who was in charge. Magnussen vividly remembered the incident when the DFS had shot at Agent Knapp’s car. He and his family – including his young kids – had been in their house, oblivious, about to have breakfast. Following the attack, Knapp was transferred back to the States. Standard procedure, embassy’s call, that kind of fuckfest. Others hadn’t been so fortunate. Kiki’s neighbor had wound up shot in a restaurant, in broad daylight.

          Kiki’s death had changed things. Supposedly. Magnussen wasn’t familiar with the Federation’s operations nowadays. The bloodthirsty sharks were undoubtedly still in the water. You just couldn’t see their fins anymore.

          The bedroom – down the second hallway, to the left – contained a California King bed, with coal grey sateen duvet covers, cool to the touch. The white bedside three-drawer chests each had a lamp on them, and the grey drapes behind them matched the light grey wool carpet. Magnussen curled her toes through it, relishing in its texture. The writing desk and chair had been positioned next to the sliding door wardrobe, where she found a vacuum, a broom, a dustpan, a clothing basket, and an ironing board. Mandatory polishing. A few cacti and a stereo, for starters. A lover or two, eventually.

          White ceramic tiles decorated the kitchen, contrasting the mythic blue cabinets, which stored pots, pans, jars, plates, bowls, food containers, cups, and glasses. At first glance, the place seemed to have everything; top-freezer refrigerator, four-burner gas stove, island, stools, sink, microwave, cutting boards, blender, toaster, garbage can, cupboards containing cutlery and can openers. The one essential component missing was food. Magnussen wasn’t opposed to going shopping for necessities, but she was too lazy to cook today. She figured that ordering some birria from Birriería Aceves would suffice.

          Her full bladder led her to the final destination: the bathroom, covered in grey tile. Magnussen removed the rings on her fingers and set them on the edge of the sink before washing her hands with cold water, too impatient to wait for the hot one. If it weren’t for the infernal queues, she could’ve solved this problem at the airport. And lose the chance to talk to Breslin? Never.

          While she urinated, she busied herself with studying the rest of the room. The majority of the objects that she expected was there; toilet, sink, mirror, front-loading washing machine, small window, mat, hair dryer, towel bar, bucket, mop, cleaning supplies. Admittedly, the custom shower and the built-in tub astonished her. They’re really spoiling me… Shower curtains are ugly, though. She flushed the toilet, washed, and dried off her hands, then slipped her rings back on.

          Okay, time to unpack.

          Magnussen began by laying out her footwear in the entrance hallway – shoes, sneakers, boots, sandals, flats, high heels, Oxfords, moccasins, slippers. The pairs that didn’t have any space left went inside the wardrobe, along with the umbrella, headwear, bandanas, sunglasses, ties, gloves, scarves, shawls, shoulder holster, hoodies, sweaters, coats, jackets, blazers, cardigans, and vests. The bathroom had the honor of hosting her perfume, deodorant, shampoo, body wash, hairbrush, toothbrush, toothpaste, and makeup. She hastily arranged the books she had brought in alphabetical order, according to the author’s surname, on the bookcases’ shelves.

          When she organized the living room dresser, Magnussen realized that she had yet to decide what to wear to her reunion with Heath tomorrow. Bowen had repeatedly warned her about that. Heath had been appointed to oversee Leyenda, so Magnussen would inevitably bump into him. She had met with Audrey on so many occasions that she had memorized every damn wrinkle on her face, as well as her physical and verbal ticks. By week three, the paperwork had become torturous. Magnussen must’ve been signing shit in her sleep. They had even subjected her to multiple drug tests. Most nights, she craved to crawl into bed and nestle against Maia, who had been ridiculously patient and supportive throughout the mess. They had discussed the situation thoroughly, and after Maia had expressed her reservations, she offered a precious piece of advice.

          ‘Look, I’m not questioning your intentions,’ clarified Maia, gazing down at Magnussen, whose head rested in her lap, ‘I understand why you want to do it… You know these people better than I do. What they’re capable of.’ She caressed her hair, cautioning, ‘Don’t let them sink their teeth into you. Turn this on you. It’s a big change. Stakes are high.’

          Maia had been right. Switching from researching and profiling criminal behavior to working with the DEA was a significant leap. Magnussen had had enough time to think over the issue, and she had made her decision – albeit not easily. She wouldn’t allow anyone to intimidate her into budging. She placed the socks, bras, panties, and lingerie in the dresser’s first drawer, the bedsheets and pillowcases in the second drawer, and the belts and suspenders joined the swimsuits and bikinis in the last one.

          Moving on to the bedroom, Magnussen deposited her book, Chapstick, phone, and contraception pills on the nightstand and hid her ID and passport in one of its cupboards. She had lost her train of thought somewhere among the clothes and semi-existential crises regarding the U.S.’ procedures for selecting people for the bureaucratic apparatus. Don’t be so hard on them. They have the electoral college.

          Alas, I digress.

          Edward fucking Heath. He had graduated with a degree in Being a Misogynistic Asshole and had perfected the art of it. Benefit of the doubt privilege suspended indefinitely. Knock-off Ronald McDonald had been constantly useless to the agents in Guadalajara – rejecting or ignoring their intel – but he had truly outdone himself when Kiki had gone missing, refusing to act until forced to do so – mainly by Mika, who had embarrassed him in the presence of both Administrator Lawn and Ambassador Gavin. Magnussen wasn’t particularly elated about seeing Heath again, though a small part of her hoped that she didn’t have to deal with him that much. Shouldn’t it be Breslin’s duty to report back to Heath? As far as she was concerned, she only had to pick up her gun, car, phone, and DEA badge from him. Their obligatory interactions ceased there, and Magnussen had no intentions whatsoever of applying for any optional ones.

          The wardrobe turned out to be the most challenging, and it quickly became obvious that she would require more hangers. Magnussen divided the rest of her belongings into six categories, as if they were sectors of the economy, arranging them into two sections.

          trousers, leggings, shorts, jeans – shelves

          gowns, dresses, skirts – hangers

          tuxedos, suits, jumpsuits, overalls, rompers – hangers

          robes, bathrobes, pyjamas – shelves

          blouses, tops, shirts, T-shirts, turtlenecks, V necks – shelves

          accessories – cupboard

          Magnussen’s eyes lingered on a silver bracelet – a treasured gift from the Camarenas, when she had completed her dissertation. They had even invited her out to celebrate – a fond memory, the closest one that she associated with “family.” Magnussen had eventually summoned the courage to reach out to Mika and shamefully confess that she had agreed to join an operation meant to bring justice to Kiki. No matter how she phrased things, it sounded wrong, but the reality was that Mexico City didn’t plan to finish the job. They had swept what they could under the rug, wishing that no one would bat an eyelid – or that everyone would forget.

          Mika had been encouraging and polite upon hearing the news, yet Magnussen struggled to assess whether she had been genuine or not. She must be thinking, “They recruited a child for a professional’s task.” Magnussen couldn’t blame her. A year had passed since Kiki’s demise, and Mika hadn’t been granted a sense of privacy, to mourn and move on. This would haunt her and their sons forever. Magnussen couldn’t comprehend what that felt like. She wouldn’t want to live long following her partner’s death. To her, it resembled a version of hell. She had once been told that those who died shortly after one another had been soulmates. For a moment, it was nice to believe. To be naïve.

          Nevertheless, Mika had thanked Magnussen for getting involved. “Kiki would be proud,” Bowen had said. I assume that he would rather be alive. I’m not doing this to make anyone proud. Kiki was gone, and what had happened to him had been a tragedy, so cruel and vicious that it was difficult to wrap your head around it. Leyenda had slowly but surely advanced towards achieving its goal. If Magnussen could contribute at all, she would try. At least it’s better than Reagan’s shitty phone call to Mika. Magnussen’s best guess? It was somehow supposed to comfort Camarena’s widow and offer reassurances, which was bizarre, because “comfort” and “reassurances” weren’t concepts that Magnussen would affiliate with Reagan. He probably gave a delirious Hollywoodian speech about patriotism, remembered that communists existed and got a raging erection, then had a stroke when he entertained the idea of sane healthcare policies.

          Before stepping out to run her errands, Magnussen replaced her ELO T-shirt with a peach blouse, pulled on a black maxi coat and a pair of sneakers, and grabbed her keys, wallet, and pack of cigarettes. The habitual chaos was deafening – unnecessary honking, cars and trucks driving by, tires screeching, pedestrians conversing, shouting, or laughing – an anthesis to her apartment’s quiet bubble of solace. Trees of various shapes and sizes lined the sidewalk, as well as tall streetlights and colorful traffic signs that few obeyed. The wind increased, causing her hair to whip her cheeks and the strong smell of gas to invade her nostrils. The corners of her eyes watered, in protest. Magnussen almost gagged. Urban charm.

          She decided to take a detour, so she started down the congested boulevard, tightening her coat around herself. A stray cat sneaked between the bars of a fence, into someone’s front yard. Early in the morning, Magnussen would wait for the bus in a station, not too far from here. After class, she would sometimes go to the park and read on a bench for hours. The image of kids joyfully playing might’ve been permanently soiled by the looming threat of the cartel. The youth grew up defenseless, exposed to violence, with little to no opportunities. Many viewed illicit activities as their salvation. Everybody had become absorbed by narcotics, but the equation wasn’t that simple. The War on Drugs was a hydra, stretching its tentacles and suffocating all aspects of life. The current strategy seemed inherently fucking Christian; concentrating on the sinners, disregarding the victims. It should be their new motto.

          The U.S. Consulate General looked bleak and deserted, just as the last time Magnussen had seen it; neither imposing, nor welcoming. And they didn’t get rid of the hideous beige paint. Memories flooded her mind, both bitter and sweet. She had lost count of the number of instances that she had walked in and out of that building, usually accompanied by Kiki or Jaime. While Magnussen hadn’t been authorized to join the DEA on their missions, she had participated in discussions at the office, analyzed files, and helped piece together intel. At first, their knowledge had been so deficient; how the cartel operated, who its members were, the officials it had corrupted. They still didn’t have much, yet they had gathered enough to attract the attention of the narcos and turn the U.S. Consulate into a crime scene. Magnussen wasn’t standing far from the spot where DFS agents and sicarios had abducted Camarena, in broad daylight, in February 1985. Her stomach twisted, mouth going dry. The beginning of the war. Of the nightmare. Searches, news reports, political tensions. The U.S. government had even shut down the border with Mexico and ordered every vehicle to be inspected.

          The longer a person is missing, the slimmer the chances of finding them. Kiki had been gone for a month. Doomed from the start. All of the parties involved had been aware that the cartel was behind it. Then, the bodies had been discovered, and hell had slowly and silently broken loose. Truthfully, Magnussen had been surprised when Fonseca and Quintero had been arrested. When Félix Gallardo hadn’t been, however, things had finally begun to make sense. The system had worked; sacrificing Camarena and protecting the Thin Man. Kiki hadn’t had any information about the politicians on the cartel’s payroll. Neither had Zavala, though there hadn’t been tapes of his interrogation. Magnussen rejected the theory that Camarena had been in the wrong place, at the wrong time. No, they had sought him out; threatened him, followed him. The cartel had known precisely where he would be on that day, at what hour, and what he would be wearing. The entire fiasco was a splintered mosaic, mutilated maybe beyond repair. Kiki had been obsessed with the idea of Félix Gallardo knowing his name, and, in the end, his wish had been granted – at an enormous cost. His patriotism had flown him too close to the sun.

          Now, it was Magnussen’s turn. One way or another, Félix Gallardo would learn her name.

          Magnussen’s shopping trip had resulted in a strategic disaster. She had returned with more bags than she had anticipated, having to balance them and the birria when climbing the stairs to her apartment. A success, nonetheless. It hadn’t been until Magnussen had smelled the meat grilling that she had realized how hungry she was. Luckily, the queue hadn’t been long. Magnussen had passed the time by listening to the ranchero music playing at the diner, harmoniously joined by cutlery clinking against plates, smokers coughing, stools creaking, and people slurping coffee.

          Magnussen drank the rest of her red wine and sat up to deposit her glass on the floor. Her back touched the cold edge of the bathtub – causing goosebumps to erupt all over her skin – so she sank into the hot water, taking a drag from her cigarette. In the living room, Judas Priest’s Love Bites blasted on the stereo, which she had set up after she had eaten.

          Softly you stir

          Gently you moan

          Lust’s in the air

          Wake as I groan

          In the dead of night, love bites

          The butterflies tattooed on her right ankle peeked out of the bubbles, droplets trickling over their wings. Magnussen watched the smoke rise to the ceiling, her thoughts wandering to her earlier encounter with Breslin at the airport. Accidental encounter. He had looked familiar, but things hadn’t initially clicked. Once they had, Magnussen had improvised and half lied during their unofficial introduction. Breslin had seemed a bit stiff and antisocial; probably common, given that he’s an undercover cop. Ironically, his appearance hadn’t wholly indicated that he was in law enforcement. What if the curls are meant to throw everyone off? Breslin’s photo in the Leyenda file had definitely been deceiving; his hair was dark brown, not black. Magnussen felt betrayed. His sad eyes were a distinctive shade of brown, almost hazel – especially if light reflected in them. Breslin’s voice had been the most striking; low and deep, likely because of the smoking. The other details she had deemed uninteresting. Magnussen hadn’t been able to help herself when Mejía had materialized and fucked up Breslin’s state of Zen. She had deliberately flashed him a smile, making sure that Mejía would notice the action.

          Professional relationship, off to a great start. Magnussen had never assumed that it would be smooth sailing. A European woman in her mid-20s born in a communist regime amidst conservative American cops in a propagandistic narco-war in Mexico? Peachy. Except Magnussen would fight the war on two different fronts; against the cartel and the DEA. Nothing new. She had faced much worse.

          Yet, Magnussen hadn’t come to Mexico to prove something to her future colleagues or to do the U.S. administration “proud” or to be awarded a medal. While some might ignore or forget the reason why they were there, to Magnussen the message resonated loudly and clearly.

          I’m here for Kiki.

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic​ @agirllovespancakes​ @artthurshelby​ @buttercup--bee​ @captn-andor​ @cleastrnge​ @dameronology​ @frodo-sam​ @itssmashedavo @maevesdarling​ @maevemills @maharani-radha​ @miawallace​ @mitchi-c​ @moonlight-prose @nicolettegreen​ @operator-sero @pascalisthepunkest​ @queenofthefaceless​ @revolution-starter​ @sullho @tisbeautifulfreedom​ 

END THE WAR ON DRUGS: Equity Organization & Drug Policy Alliance

READ MORE: Guadalajara, U.S. Consulate, Police Policy on Tattoos, Birriería Aceves, Love Bites by Judas Priest

[cregan-starks]

Ossie Mejía in Narcos: Mexico

for @nocturnal-milk-dud

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Nocturnal-Milk-Dud’s Masterlist

Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales

Goodnight, Frankie

Morning Light

Someone To Take Care of You

Call Me

There’s No More Room In Hell (Frankie Morales and Dawn Of The Dead)

Somebody’s Got A Case Of The Mondays (Frankie Morales and Cooties)

Ray Merrimen

The Man in The Mask

It’s Lovely Down In The Woods Today, But Safer To Stay At Home (Ray Merrimen and Friday the 13th)

Our Business Is Life Itself (Ray Merrimen and Resident Evil)

Horacio Carrillo

Man Made of Stone

Desperate Measures

Tender Acts (A Horacio Carrillo Imagine)

What’s The Bad News (Horacio Carrillo and Dawn Of The Dead)

It’s Too Quiet In This Room (Vampire!Carrillo)

Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon

Unfinished Business

Black Lace and Wine

These Klowns, Honey, Gonna Make You Die (Benny Magalon and Killer Klowns From Outer Space)

Send In The Klowns (Benny Magalon and Killer Klowns From Outer Space)

Kevin 'KJ' Jimenez

How Good It Is

Ossie Mejía

After Tonight

Golden As They Come

Where Did My Lover Go? (Ossie Mejia Request)

Obispo 'Bishop' Losa

Let Me

Troubled Minds

Say It (part two to Troubled Minds)

One Last Time-Right?

His Name Is Trouble

Someone Could Lose A Heart Tonight (Bishop Losa and Near Dark)

Juice Ortiz

You're A Natural

Neron 'Creeper' Vargas

Playing Games

Walt Breslin

Don't Know How To Be Alone (A Walt Breslin Drabble)

William “Ironhead” Miller

Designated Driver

Operation NESTWRECKER (Will Miller and Resident Evil)

It’s Because I Love You Most Of All (Will Miller and Fear Street)

Hassan el-Shabbaz

Room For Two

Angel Reyes

There’s No Way He Has A License (Angel Reyes and Gremlins)

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Okay, okay….hear me out…Ossie with your choice of media because you write him flawlessly regardless 🥺

Sooooooo I kinda went off the map with this one...i flip flopped A LOT on what I wanted to do. Originally it was going to be nightmare on elm street and we were gonna get Ossie in a crop top but I wasn't completely invested. And then a random tumblr post and a song made me think of this. I hope you like it, there isn't much of Ossie which like oops but and it's kinda angsty so double oops but I think it works please don't hate me

Where Did My Lover Go?

Pairing: Ossie Mejía x Reader

Warnings/notes: major character death; blood; death in general; angsty angst; grief; TRUST ME though it's not as bad as it sounds I PROMISE

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 988

You remember the first time you saw death. Your parents had been very careful to avoid the subject with you, skirting around it with pretty metaphors and flat-out lies. You were the one who found your dog. He had been hit by a car some time in the night. The driver had moved him off the road and laid him on the grass. If your parents had found him they would have whisked him away and told another lie. You sat with him, shook him when he didn’t wake. And eventually you understood, but not enough. And you were angry, and you were selfish. And you dug your nails into your palms until blood creased under them, cursing the yawning pit in your chest that you didn’t know to call grief and in your head and in your heart you told the dog to move. And he did. He sprang to his feet like he had been sleeping all along. He licked your face and the blood from your palms and everything was alright again. 

The older you get the more confident you are that the dog had only been hurt. You forget about the dog. Death just becomes another part of life.

There’s no reason that you can see why you’ve been pulled awake. The darkness is thick in your room, bearing down, and you feel like you’re sealed in a coffin. The emptiness hits you like a wave, a pit deep and wide opening in your chest, and you’re clutching at your heart as you choke on the sobs clawing out of your throat. Every inch of your body knows something is terribly wrong, but you have no idea what. It’s a long while before you’re calm again, and even then the tears won’t stop. You settle back in the bed, feeling like something has been taken from you. 

In the clear morning daylight you sit staring at the phone. A cup of coffee grows cold beside it. Something happened to Ossie. That much you know. You can feel it in your bones. But there’s no way for you to call him, or any of them. So you sit, and you wait. The humming sound gets louder in your ears. Your fingers tap the table. Everything is so quiet and so loud all at once and the pit in your chest is still there, if you pry open your skin you’ll find it. Sit and wait. Sit and wait. 

The phone rings and you snap for it. It barely gets through the first ring before it’s off the hook and in your hand.

“What happened?” you demand. The man stutters on the other end, not expecting to be put right in the middle of it so soon. He was going to ease into it. Make sure you’re sitting down. Talk to you calmly like you’re a child, not knowing that it will only make you want to scream more. He clears his throat.

“Ossie’s dead,” Walt Breslin says. You hear his gravelly voice through the phone as he continues on, but you’re not hearing the words. You’re sinking, you’re cold. The emptiness inside you has spread out, covering you like a shroud. There are no parting pleasantries, in fact you think Walt is still talking when you hang up the phone. You do remember hearing they don’t have his body--due to the circumstances there is no body to have. There is nothing left of him. And you feel something snap inside you. You leave the house, slamming the door behind you.

You think about the dog for the first time in years while you’re pacing the backyard. You changed the story, telling it to yourself and others the way it made sense. You told it so many times you forgot what really happened, and looking back on it now there was nothing for that dog to have been other than dead. It wouldn’t have stayed out in the November cold all night if it was only hurt. The driver wouldn’t have left it if it was only hurt. 

You rest on the soft grass and look at the palm of your hands. There are faded half moon scars from where you’d dug your nails in a lot harder than you’d realized. You close your eyes and remember Ossie and you think of the empty, quiet house and the waves of grief and anger pulse through you. You dig your nails in as you pass through the memories, feeling the past and raging against the denied future, and you dig. You tell him to move, you tell him to find a way back to you and you dig. Warm blood pools around your nail beds and drips onto the ground. 

You don’t know how long you’re there, but the sun is low in the sky when you finally get up--when you finally give up. Your hands are bloody and raw and they hurt to move. Your eyes are dry and red and your stomach is hollow. You don’t bother turning on lights, making your way through the house like a ghost.

You have one foot on the stairs when there’s a knock at the door. Pins and needles start in your hands as if they’re just starting to wake up when you reach for the handle. A figure stands silhouetted in your doorway and when he says your name you let out the breath you were holding in a sharp gust. His voice is hoarse and you reach over to turn on the hall light. Ossie holds his hand in front of his eyes, shielding them for a moment. He’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing pants that don’t quite fit. His skin is covered with black spots of ash and the acrid smell of burnt flesh makes your eyes water. But he’s whole. Unbelievably and completely whole. He steps inside and takes your bloody hand, kisses your palm.  

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Golden As They Come: Chapter Seven

Pairing: Ossie Mejía x Reader

Summary: Drugs are just a necessary evil

Warning/notes: I did "research" on the CIAs involvement in cocaine trafficking during the Nicaraguan civil war and now I don't remember any of it. I put research in quotes because it sounds so formal and all I did was Google some stuff I'm not an expert ANYWAY; this chapter might be terrible; I've only seen Stechner in three episodes so he might be poorly written; I feel like he's one not to dirty his own hands but he does a little bit here; violence; blood; murder; torture; language; lots of vagueness I'm sorry; why does our reader draw the line at drugs? Idk

Rating: R

Word count: 1231

Matta Ballesteros. You heard Danilo and Sal’s voices, but the words weren’t clicking because the pieces already had. Your food tasted sour in your mouth and you nudged the plate away, getting to your feet. 

“I have to make a phone call,” you said, voice so low you were surprised when Walt gave you an acknowledging nod, his brow furrowed. You were sure he was watching you as you walked away so you were careful to take your time, slow down and relax your shoulders. 

You had followed Stechner around the jungles of Nicaragua like a puppy, soaking up every word that fell from his mouth, eager to learn. He quickly became your confidante, and long conversations in his office over a bottle of whatever you could find led you to believe you had become his. He gave you just enough to make you think you knew the most, when really you didn’t know anything at all. Maybe he saw something in you. Maybe you were just eager and dumb. He encouraged you to see people as tools with buttons to be pressed and levers to work; to see bodies as diagrams of pressure points, nerve centers, pain receptors. Taught you how to use pain and fear to get what you needed.

You probably would have continued to stumble through in rose colored glasses, pieces of your humanity breaking off day by day, if it hadn’t been for the boy. 

“He’s one of ours,” you said after Stechner let you take a look inside the shed. He had a Contra soldier high cuffed in the center of the room, blood dripping into his eye from a cut in his forehead. You’d seen him around a few times. He seemed kind, which was no small thing. These men were not kind. If it hadn’t been for Stechner and the fact that you were CIA, this place would have swallowed you whole the moment you’d arrived. You remembered seeing the boy make a rope ball for a group of children and sneak them candy. Turns out this place would swallow him whole too. 

“And he may be the reason we lost a shipment of weapons,” Stechner said. “Either he’s very lucky, or he’s a rat.” 

"He’s just a kid,” you pushed, as if you weren’t one yourself, and Stechner pierced you with a calculating stare.

“I thought I could rely on you,” he said, the smallest edge of disappointment creeping into his tone.

“You can,” you rushed to assure him.

“Then get in there and do your job.” 

Hours of your torture and Stechner’s circling questioning and the boy still sobbed that he didn’t know anything, he swore he didn’t know anything, he was a coward, he’d hid, please believe him. You needed to put an end to it if Stechner wouldn’t. 

“He’s telling the truth,” you said, wiping your bloodied hands on a grimy towel. Stechner conceded, nodding at the floor, and your shoulders sagged in relief, expecting the worst to be over. You were wrong. Before you could react, Stechner pulled his gun and put a bullet between the boy’s eyes. Air froze in your lungs. 

“He didn’t know anything!” you snapped. “If you have a leak, it’s somewhere else!” 

“I tell you how to do your job, not the other way around,” he said, voice calm, matter-of-fact. “Clean this up.” Your eyes lingered on the slack body, blood dripping into a puddle on the dirt floor. 

The late night talks stopped after that, and your suspicions grew, until one night you tailed a team of Contra soldiers and found yourself watching cocaine and money change hands. 

You should have handled it differently, should have made sure someone else could corroborate, but a part of you wanted to believe that the man you looked up to was still there, if he ever had been at all. 

“Where’s the cocaine going?” you asked. “How much do you get for it? Who supplies it?” Stechner leaned back in his chair, sighing. “Is that why you killed him? It wasn’t a shipment of weapons that was lost, was it?”

“Are you finished?” he asked.

“He was a boy,” you said, ignoring him. 

“He was a soldier. And you killed him,” Stechner said, throwing you, and you stumbled in your rebuke. 

“No I didn’t.” Stechner tossed a manila file down on his desk, flipping it open. You saw your picture paperclipped inside.

“I have a detailed report from that night that says that due to an error on the trainee’s part--that’s you, by the way--the subject bled out.”

“It’s your word against mine,” you fumbled.

“I think, out of the two of us, they’ll take mine,” Stechner said, closing the file. “This can go away. The drugs play a very small role in a much bigger game here. Look at them as a necessary evil. So much of this job is a necessary evil.” 

“Or?”

“Or quit,” Stechner said. “Stay and suck it up, or quit. That’s how this file stays buried.” 

It had been an undoing. You would keep yourself up at night reexamining everything Stechner had ever asked of you, wondering what he’d kept hidden. Wondering the level of damage you’d inflicted. 

“You know I was just thinking about you.” You could hear his jaw working slowly on the other end, your call having caught him in the middle of a meal. When he spoke again, his voice was clear, cheerful. It made you sick. “I have a bag of buñuelos right here, still warm, I know you love those.” 

“It was you, wasn’t it,” you said ignoring his pleasantries. “He was right in front of you and instead of doing the right thing, you did the easy thing, like always.” You heard his throat clear, and a deep sigh drifted through the receiver. You imagined him leaning back in his chair and taking the phone from where he had it cradled between shoulder and ear. 

“I made a decision for the greater good,” he said finally. “But you could never see the forest for the trees. You still can’t. You were so true red white and blue and you had your rights and your wrongs and there was no room for anything in between--”

“Stop, stop it, stop talking to me like I’m a child and I don’t understand how the world works. The fact is you had a choice, you had a choice every time and you always chose yourself, you selfish piece of shit!” You slammed the receiver down, hanging on it and resting your forehead against the box. You had told yourself that wouldn’t happen, that the conversation wouldn’t spiral out of control but why else had you called Stechner if not to yell at him? The phone rang, making you jump, and you looked out at the darkening world around you. You were alone and you couldn’t help but pick it up. 

“By the way,” Stechner said, not waiting to find out if it was you on the other end, “I heard through the grapevine about your recent exploits. You have a bad habit of leaving bodies in your wake.” The line went dead. 

A wall came down after that. You returned to the safehouse with a hard focus, with the intent of doing your job and nothing more.

Taglist: @artemiseamoon @arellanofelixboys  @thesolotomyhan @mcrmarvelloki  @revolution-starter  @tori-reads @acrossthesestars @spleeniexox @mesmorales @maevesdarling @unicorn-cloud

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Golden As They Come: Chapter Six

Chapter Five

Pairing: Ossie Mejía x Reader

Summary: The two of you should have been more careful and now somebody knows.

Warnings/notes: language; alcohol; I'm sorry this took so long. I ended up on a fandom detour and then I just stopped writing for a bit. I didn't mean to or I would've said something, it just wasn't working, none of my wips were.

Rating: PG

Word count: 1661

Careless. That was the word painted on the inside of your eyelids as you tried to sleep. The close calls had become more and more frequent since that first night and you should have backed off, let things cool down. At best you would have to break it off, at worst you would be sent home. Whatever happened, you would make sure to bear the brunt of it. In the oppressive silence of the passing night you focused on what would have to be done and packed everything else away into neat little boxes. 

Once on the plane you tucked yourself in a window seat in the back of the cabin. It had been easy to avoid a moment alone with Ossie since you spent the morning surrounded by the rest of the team, but avoiding his gaze was another story. You allowed brief glances, afraid that anything more would reveal too much. Even that must have failed because you noted a touch of concern in the warm umber of his eyes. A subtle twitch of your eye that read to him as a wink and a quick upturn of your lips dismissed it, and you ducked your head, double checking your bag, feeling sick. On the plane, you stared out the window at the tarmac as everyone else filed in, not looking up as someone settled into the seat next to you. Only when the plane was in the air and soft chatter filled the cabin did you turn your attention to your companion. 

"I have to stop seeing him,” you said, voice soft, resigned.

“I don’t have to tell you the risks here,” Daryl said. “Everybody thinks they can separate it, but all it takes is one argument, one distraction for the whole operation to fall apart.” You knew he was right. Love had a way of making people stupid, reckless. Love? You shook the thought out of your head, pinching the inside of your cheek between your teeth.

“Did you tell Walt?” you asked eventually and Daryl scoffed.

“No, he’s got enough on his plate,” he said, getting to his feet, “but I will if I have to.” Daryl patted your arm and headed up the aisle to sit with Walt. You sighed back into your seat and gazed out the window as the plane cut through the clouds.

------------

The plan went off without a hitch, you had practically felt Arce vibrating with panic through the phone. After the call, you joined the others in the lobby. 

“Alright,” Walt said, and he gestured to you and Ossie, “you two go meet up with the others. We got a plane to catch.” He patted Daryl on the shoulder and led the way out the door, the pilot close behind. Daryl shared a look with you and you nodded, knowing that the easy part was over. Everything was falling into place, you should have been relieved, but the heaviness in your chest only grew as you and Ossie were left alone. 

------------

It was a beautiful day, the wind through the lowered truck windows a refreshing reprieve from the crisp sunlight. You had your feet up on the dash, arm dangling out the window, watching buildings, bodies, and cars blur into a mess of shapes and color. You were very aware of the time slipping away from you, and with each passing minute your throat grew tighter, nails scratching at the skin of your thumb. You tried to speak, but you would open your mouth and the words just sat there, needing a greater force than you were capable of to be spoken. The truck slowed with traffic and you caught sight of a couple sitting on the stone edge of a fountain. The woman was in a light blue dress and you watched as she covered her mouth as she laughed, her hair falling across her face. 

Your head snapped up when you felt Ossie’s hand on your shoulder, not realizing he had been talking to you for some time. 

“Florecita?” he said, looking at you curiously. 

“Sorry,” you said, straightening in your seat. 

"You okay?” he asked. 

“I’m fine, just a little tired, I think.” 

“I can see why you left the CIA, can’t lie for shit.” Ossie chuckled, but the grin that accompanied it was quick to disappear as he waited for you to say something, but you weren’t about to tell him that you could lie, just not to him. Instead you stayed silent, looking back to the world outside, the couple that slowly slid past as the light changed and the truck started moving again.

“I was saying when this is all over I’m gonna take you out on a date.” You closed your eyes, feeling your heart sink like a stone. Taking a deep breath you forced it all down.

“A date?” you asked. 

“Yeah, sorry, I thought you knew what those were, maybe it’s just been a while for you.” A somber smile crossed your face and you looked over at him, his smile as bright as the sun, cheeks pushing up the aviators hiding his eyes, wind tousling his hair, and it was then that you made a decision. Forget whatever the future was--the two of you were alone, you didn’t have to hide anything. You could be like the couple sitting by the fountain, if only for a short while. You would deal with Daryl, you would deal with Walt if you had to, but you were done throwing away what little time you had. A real smile lit up your face and touched your eyes, crinkling the corners, and you nudged him playfully.  

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you teased. “What’s your date idea, Romeo?”

“I’m thinking dinner and dancing,” Ossie said.

“That’s good,” you agreed, “it’s a classic. I hope you clean up nice.” 

“Oh please, have you seen me?” Ossie said, pretending to be offended. “And I got this great Hawaiian shirt--why are you laughing? I look amazing in it!” The two of you fell into a fit of laughter, and suddenly picnics at a fountain and a fancy dinner date didn’t seem too impossible. You’d wait to tell him that you couldn’t dance. You nestled into Ossie’s side and kicked your legs up on the seat as he hooked his arm around you. 

------------

“I couldn’t do it.” You and Daryl were sitting in the corner of a dimly lit bar, beer bottles crisp with condensation sitting untouched in front of you. The two of you were fresh off of stakeout duty, keeping tabs on the plazas while Walt was back in the states. When Daryl was assigning teams you had tried not to think too much about the fact that he kept you and Ossie well separated, and focused instead on the opportunity to speak to Daryl alone. He was relaxed back in his chair and if what you were saying surprised him, the sharp corners of his face and the squint of his eyes didn’t show it. You held his gaze steadily as you spoke, arms folded in front of you on the table. “I can’t do it. Whatever Walt decides, whatever happens: it happens to me.” You paused, eyebrows hitching with your emphasis. “I’m off the team, I’m sent home, because I was told to end it and I didn’t.” Daryl was silent for a moment, letting your words sink in, before sniffing and swiping a finger under his nose. He leaned forward in his seat, reaching for the neglected beer. 

“Thank you for the emphasis, if it hadn’t been for that I only would’ve had the repetition to go off of and I don’t think that would have been enough.” You had been expecting him to say something weighty, something final, and when he didn’t you slouched back in your seat, shaking your head in annoyance. “Ya know, there was a lotta hesitation about you joining the team.” 

“Kenny,” you said, the agent’s dislike radiating off of him since your previous affiliation came to light, though he had warmed up to you since Arce’s successful apprehension. Daryl took a deep breath, his chest puffing out as he sat back again, waving off the mention of Kenny. 

“Well, yeah, but he didn’t like all the secrecy around you. I’m talking about Walt.” Your gaze had been wandering around the bar, not caring for the detour your conversation had taken, but when Daryl mentioned Walt--admitted his doubts--your eyes snapped back. 

“Walt?” you demanded and Daryl nodded.

“He was worried you might be a distraction.” At the revelation, you slumped against the back of your seat, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of you. “Walt needed a committed, focused team, as committed as him. Which is impossible, but…” Daryl shrugged. “And now here we are.”

“What, you think I wanted this? You think I joined this team hoping I’d get some action on the floor of a dingy, abandoned building? I came here wanting nothing more than to get the job done, to walk away thinking just maybe I still had value here.” You were conscious of the fact that you were saying too much, but it was all coming out too fast and you barely had time to shut up. “I just wanted to do my job.”

“So then why couldn’t you?” Daryl asked and you clamped down on the inside of your bottom lip.

“I’m happy,” you admitted, which was no small thing. You leaned forward, reaching out across the table. “Look, I’ll talk to Ossie. We’ll keep it quiet until things are wrapped up.” Daryl scoffed, shaking his head. Eventually, he threw money down on the table and got to his feet.

“I should make you walk back to the safe house,” he said. 

“How did you feel? About me joining the team?” you asked, not getting up from your seat. 

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Daryl said. “C’mon.” He gestured for you to follow. 

Taglist: @artemiseamoon @arellanofelixboys  @thesolotomyhan @mcrmarvelloki  @revolution-starter @mishficsx  @tori-reads @acrossthesestars @spleeniexox @mesmorales @maevesdarling @unicorn-cloud @walt-breslin

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

After Tonight

Pairing: Ossie Mejía x Reader

Summary: "At any moment you would wake up, find yourself alone in the dark, tallying another night without him beside you."

Rating: PG-13

Warnings/notes: HE’S MY BABY, OKAY There is something very terrifying about writing for a character that doesn’t have a lot of content; this will probably get like five notes but I DON’T CARE it’s completely and utterly self-indulgent; this isn't related to the snippet I posted the other day, I actually had this sitting in my drafts for a bit; language; FLUFF because Ossie deserves softness; some sensuality; implied sexual activity; based off of this dialogue prompt; if you’re on the taglist it’s because you indulged me, if you don’t want to be, let me know. Excuse me, I’m gonna go hide now. 

Word count: 1153

You folded your keys back in your hand and turned the knob, pushing the door open. Letting out a deep sigh, you stepped into the darkness of the entryway and dropped your bag on the floor. Your keys clattered into the bowl that sat on the table near the door. 

“You have got to stop breaking into my house,” you said into the darkness. 

“I wouldn’t have to, if you’d just give me a key.” Ossie’s voice floated out to you from the living room. You could hear the smile in it. You pictured him sitting on the couch, his ankle resting on his knee, arm stretched out over the back, casual as ever. You stepped into the doorway of the living room and leaned against the wall. He was exactly as you pictured him and you could just make out half of his face in the dim light from a streetlamp. 

“I believe I also told you to get a better lock,” he said. 

“You don’t call, you don’t write,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest and playing with the pendant at the end of your necklace. You fought the urge to cross the room and settle yourself on his lap, curl your fingers in his hair. He glanced down at his hand, tapping his knee with his fingers.

“It wasn’t safe,” Ossie replied, his voice soft.

“Well then it probably isn’t safe for you to be here.” You pushed away from the wall and headed for the bedroom, not bothering to turn on any lights. You needed to stop looking at him. It had started to rain and you opened the window in your bedroom, inhaling the warm, fresh scent. You slipped off your pants and dug through your dresser, looking for pajamas. Ossie’s hand brushed your waist and you stilled, feeling his chest press gently into your back. A flutter started in your stomach, and you couldn’t stop your heart from racing. It had been too long since he’d touched you. Ossie curled his fingers under the collar of your shirt and tugged it aside so he could place a warm kiss on your shoulder while his other hand tickled its way up the skin of your outer thigh. You released a shaky breath, letting your body relax against his. 

“Ossie,” you whispered, sweeping your fingers into his hair as he pressed hot open-mouthed kisses along your neck. “That’s not fair.” Ossie chuckled and you gasped at the feeling of the heat of his breath on your wet skin. You turned, pushing him back toward the bed. He fell back onto it, having been caught off-guard. 

“I’m supposed to be mad at you,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Does your pussy know that?” Ossie said, smirking. 

“You can go fuck yourself,” you said, starting to walk away. Ossie sprang up from the bed and you ran, laughing as he chased you down the hallway. Before you could reach the living room he caught you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close. You shrieked and giggled in his embrace and let him turn you, pin you against the wall. His lips joined yours in a breathless kiss, his hand curling around your cheek. You slid your hand up his arm, bringing it to rest over his slender fingers as Ossie left kisses on the tip of your nose and your forehead. You turned your head, your lips pressing into the palm of his hand. 

“I love you,” Ossie whispered. You blinked up at him in surprise, your hand starting to slip from his. Ossie caught it and you felt him press something small and cool into your palm. You looked down, still wrapping your head around his words, and saw a gold band resting in your hand. 

“This is...you love me and this is…” Ossie chuckled and took the ring from you, sliding it on the ring finger of your left hand. 

“You know what this means, right?” you asked. “A ring on this finger? That’s where the whole ‘til death do us part’ bit comes in, you’re prepared for that?” Your heart was fluttering in your chest, the word ‘marriage’ too much for you to manage. At any moment you would wake up, find yourself alone in the dark, tallying another night without him beside you. “This means you can’t just disappear when shit hits the fan, either.” Ossie had been watching you work through everything, a broad smile brightening his face. 

“I know what marrying you means,” he said, and your breath caught at the word, warm tears building behind your eyelids. “So am I gonna hear a yes, or an I love you, too? Anything?” Your chest caved in a chuckle and you grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him close, your free hand guiding his around your waist before curling in the soft dark hair at the nape of his neck. 

“I love you, too,” you whispered, smiling against his lips. You kissed him, your fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, needing him close. 

“So is that a yes?” Ossie asked as you let him tug your shirt up over your head. He tossed the fabric aside and turned his attention to your neck. 

“God, yes, Ossie!” you said, tilting your head back to laugh. 

Your fingers curled around the bedsheets and you opened your eyes to the dark. Rain pattered against the window and a streak of lightning illuminated the room, revealing the empty space next to you. It took you a moment to wipe away the cobwebs in your brain.

“I can’t stay the night,” Ossie whispered. Your head rested on his chest and his fingers played with your hair, his touch like a lullaby. 

“Ossie,” you grumbled sleepily.

“I’m sorry, baby, there’s a job tonight.” You felt Ossie press a kiss to the top of your head and you hummed against his skin, wanting to argue, to find a way to convince him to stay, but fuck you were so tired, and the rain was so nice, and his touch was so soft.

“Things will be different after tonight, I promise,” he whispered.

“They better be, mister.” The words barely made it past your lips, your eyelids shut, too heavy to open. You felt a chuckle pass through him. 

You buried your face in the pillow that was still creased from where his head had lain, breathing in his scent. You hugged it close, rolling back over, and laughed to yourself, remembering the moment in the hallway. It was still impossible to believe and you found yourself turning on your bedside lamp so you could see the ring, proving to yourself it had really happened. You switched off the lamp and settled back into the bed, thinking of all the mornings you would finally get to have, imagining the way the sunlight would fall across his skin. 

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